


Clint & Natasha

by wheel_pen



Series: Loose Gems [40]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 13:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8144981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: Clint is a successful Hunter with a grand house in the country managed by Phil. He can be a little impulsive, though, and one day at the fair he decides to buy a beautiful bedslave named Natasha, who has more than a few secrets and issues. This story is unfinished.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things.   
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this alternate universe, which I own nothing from.

 

People stared as he walked through the fair, in his dark purple leather uniform with the bow and quiver slung over his back. He could blend in when he wanted, be practically invisible, but he wasn’t on a job here and he wanted to relax a little bit, just pass through the fair on his way home. Maybe going out in full uniform was a little bold; but he also hoped it would keep people from hassling him. And sometimes people gave Hunters things for free, just for hanging around their booths for a little while looking intimidating. Not that he was just trying to score freebies, or needed to, but it was a nice perk sometimes.

What he could really use right now was a place to sit. Phil would laugh himself silly to think of Clint’s feet hurting, but he’d been on them a lot lately and, well, he wasn’t as young as he used to be, frankly. Maybe he should just go back to his transport and start the journey home, he thought. But the transport lot seemed awfully far away at the moment. Maybe he could claim these boots were defective or something.

Clint saw several rows of chairs set up before a stage and gladly snagged an empty one at the back. Whatever event they were all gathered to witness was apparently about to start soon and the other seats filled quickly, with yet more people jockeying for standing positions and glaring at those who’d gotten chairs first. Curious what the fuss was about Clint swiped his thumb across the pad attached to the seatback before him and brought up the schedule. Ah, a slave auction. And a premium one, too, from the looks of the crowd—not your average county fair shoppers looking for a bargain on slaves to do menial farm or shop labor.

Clint was not really in the market. But he wasn’t ready to get up and move just yet, and he didn’t mind taking up a seat someone else wanted. He was just a little contrary that way, and he wouldn’t move until he felt like it.

After a moment the auction started, with the usual outrageous promises to get the crowd riled up. The goods on offer were mostly bedslaves, a bit risqué for a sleepy county fair, but the city socialites had turned out for them—maybe the fair had agreed to it for just that reason, to draw out a wealthier crowd than usual. Come for the bedslaves, stay for the funnel cakes and beer bottle art.

At any rate Clint didn’t mind watching the parade of pretty young things go by, imagining however briefly that this one or that one was going home with him, to keep him company out there in the country. It was only what everyone else in the crowd was doing, too, though at least he kept his thoughts to himself. But really, he didn’t mind the quiet of the country, he’d chosen a house out there on purpose for the quiet; and between Phil and the other servants he sometimes felt like too many people lived there already.

Still, none of them warmed his bed, and that task was nice to daydream about.

The MC was making big promises about the last slave on auction, and Clint was surprised to realize he’d stayed for the whole thing. Well, it had only been an hour, he supposed, determined not to feel guilty about his break. He could watch the last sale, walk over to the transport lot, and still be home before midnight.

A figure walked onto the stage, swathed in a cloak that hid all salient details except that he or she was on the petite side, and the crowd was already catcalling to drop the disguise. They were certainly no better _behaved_ than a bunch of low-class hicks. Then the figure unclasped the cloak and let it fall to the stage dramatically, and the punchy crowd really went wild.

It was a woman, flaming red hair, pale skin, heart-shaped face, in a little black dress that showed off her admirable curves. She was older than the others had been; but she strutted across the stage with a contemptuous confidence that came only with experience, bitter experience. Her blue eyes flashed at the crowd, then she turned to show off her perfect backside, gazing at them all coldly over her shoulder. Her expression said she would be a difficult property, but worth every moment of trouble.

Clint knew exactly where he’d seen her before. And he made the decision that she was coming home with him.

The bidding was fast and furious, potential buyers pounding on the electronic pads to get their bids in as the price rose higher. Clint didn’t enter into the fray, however. Ideally he would only need to make one bid, the last one. He waited until the bidding slowed and one by one the dueling participants dropped out, until it was down to someone near the front. “Going once,” called the auctioneer, when he couldn’t coax any more bids from the crowd.

Clint entered his own bid, quietly, adding a zero to the end of the current amount. Extravagant? Yes. But expedient.

The MC stammered as he saw the new bid come in and the crowd murmured when he repeated it, everyone looking around to see if they could figure out who’d made it. There were no raises and the auctioneer declared the redhead sold.

Clint would not be going home alone tonight.

If the woman had any thoughts about the price paid for her, they didn’t show on her face, and she merely walked off stage as she was told to. The audience started to break up, chattering excitedly among themselves, and Clint casually gathered his things and stood, apparently in no rush. They weren’t going to give her away to someone else, after all. But even telling himself that quickened his pace slightly and he made his way directly to the auction tent, instead of stretching his legs or getting something to eat first.

His ID was checked at the door and then he entered the tent, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior rapidly. Each slave had their own little stall where they waited for their new owners to pick them up—most were nervous as Clint passed them, some obviously frightened or outright crying; that was the flipside of dealing with pretty young things, they didn’t have enough experience to understand what was going to happen next. If they got an owner who appreciated that, they would be lucky.

Clint journeyed further into the tent and finally saw the redhead in her stall in the corner. He stayed off to the side, trying to get a glimpse of her before she knew she was being watched. She sat leaning against the wall, shoulders slightly slumped, her expression a mix of melancholy and uncertainty—interesting, given that she was older than the typical bedslave at this market. He would have to check her history once he’d obtained it.

She was definitely the person he’d been thinking of, though, so he knew at least one owner’s identity.

_Previous_ owner, he corrected himself, and Clint worked to keep his expression business-like and neutral, instead of breaking out into a grin. _She_ was going home with _him_ , that was a certainty. And he thought, if she was a reasonable person, she would like it there. And if she turned out to be an _unreasonable_ person—the thought crushed him a little—mean or nagging or whiny or something like that, he could always put her back on the market, in the city maybe. No way would he recoup what he’d paid for her, but that wasn’t the point. He hoped she’d be reasonable.

The tent was getting crowded now, filling up with new owners, old owners, and auction personnel, and Clint finally stepped up to the redhead’s stall. Upon seeing him her transformation was immediate—she straightened up, crossed her shapely legs, tossed her hair, and smiled coyly. He was under no illusions that this had anything to do with him personally, but he appreciated the effect. She looked him up and down, biting her full bottom lip in a fetching way. “So you’re a Hunter,” she purred, and her voice had a husky quality to it he hadn’t expected to hear again. He liked it. “You must be very good, to afford the price you paid for me.”

“I am,” he answered simply. Then he held out his hand to her. “Clint Barton.”

She seemed surprised by the gesture but took his hand as offered. “Natasha.” She almost gave a last name, automatically, then stopped herself and glanced away. It was her former owner’s last name, which had now been taken away from her.

“Were you with your last owner for a long time?” Clint guessed, not releasing her hand.

The flirtatious mask returned. “I was,” she agreed. “But he got too old for me.”

It was more of a joke excuse than a real reason to sell a beautiful, healthy bedslave, especially one only in her mid to late 20s. “How old are you?” Clint wanted to know.

“Twenty-seven.” There was no point to being disingenuous about that; her records would clearly show her age. “How old are _you_?” she asked teasingly in turn.

“Not _too_ old,” Clint assured her, and the levity relaxed her somewhat.

“Where do you live?” AKA, where was _she_ going to be living?

“Out in the country,” he replied. It was a vague description but he saw from her expression that further specificity would be wasted; she was a city girl. “It’s a few hours away by transport.”

She concealed her disappointment artfully. “I suppose a Hunter ought to live in the country,” she commented.

“Why did—“ Clint’s question—the most important question, really, about why her previous owner had decided to cut her loose—was interrupted by the arrival of the head auctioneer himself. Irritatingly, he fawned over Clint’s good taste and his bidding savvy, and made several increasingly bad puns about being a Hunter.

“Be quiet while I’m reading this,” Clint told him as he perused the paperwork. It took only this single command, calmly given, to shut him up. The contract said she would be allowed to keep ‘all her possessions,’ but these weren’t itemized. “What possessions does she have?” he wanted to know.

“Only what she’s wearing,” the auctioneer shrugged.

Clint glanced over at her and caught a corner of her downcast expression. “That’s it? Her owner didn’t leave her anything else?” That was odd, to not have at least a small suitcase of favorite clothes or souvenirs collected over the years. He wanted to make sure she—and he—weren’t getting cheated by a sticky-fingered auction worker. “You don’t have anything else?” he asked Natasha directly.

She shook her head and forced herself to smile seductively. “No. What more do you need?”

One obvious thing came to mind. “I can’t walk her through the fair dressed like that,” Clint pointed out.

The auctioneer knew what he was getting at and grandly pulled one of the cloaks from a peg on the stall divider. “Very good quality, available for purchase for only—“ Clint gave him a look. “Er, for you, a discounted price of—“ Clint raised an eyebrow slightly. “Consider it a gift,” the auctioneer decided prudently. With what he’d made in commission on this sale he could afford it.

“Thank you,” Clint told him perfunctorily, indicating he should hand the object to Natasha himself while Clint finished reading the contract. “Why is she being sold?” he asked the man.

Clint didn’t really expect him to tell the truth if it might dissuade the Hunter from finalizing the purchase, and the auctioneer might not even know the reason. But Clint had hoped that if he did, it might flash across his face while he worked on his lie. Regrettably it did not. “Oh, well, the previous owner probably just couldn’t keep up with her, young, spirited girl, you know, ha ha!” the auctioneer joked.

Clint stared at him until he ceased his fake laughter. He thought about saying that she _wasn’t_ a girl, he didn’t _want_ a girl, she was a _woman_ and that’s what he preferred; but it seemed pedantic, not to mention pointless and perhaps too personal. Also he was pretty sure he’d referred to her as a ‘girl’ in his own mind at some point, though he felt he meant it differently.

The auctioneer took Clint’s silence as disapproval and hesitation. “Look, I don’t know why she’s being sold,” he admitted, with a tiny bit of impatience. “Maybe her master had a debt to pay, or his new wife didn’t want her around. But she’s certified free of physical defects.”

Now Clint saw another rationale for an up-market auction at a down-market venue: less stringent background checks and less thorough evaluations. They’d done only the most basic physical health check, he saw in the contract, and no psychological tests at all.

None of which really mattered to him, he supposed, and he imprinted the contract and handed it back to the auctioneer, who seemed surprised by his sudden agreement. “So, you’re taking her now?” he checked.

“Yes, right now,” Clint agreed, and Natasha stood and wrapped the cloak around her shoulders. “Was there anything else?”

“No, not a thing,” the auctioneer insisted, smiling broadly. “Have a good day. I’m sure you’ll enjoy your purchase.” He hurried away before Clint could give him any more trouble.

He offered Natasha his hand again and she took it, finally leaving the stall. “Watch your step,” she advised dryly as they threaded through the tent. “They had horses in here this morning.”

Clint grimaced. “If this were in the city I’d be sitting in a velvet chair drinking complimentary champagne right now,” he muttered. Not that that was really his preferred lifestyle, but it did beat horse manure on your shoes.

“I think there’s a lemon shake-up stand outside,” Natasha deadpanned as they exited the tent.

Clint stopped to look her over in the fading sunlight. The pair of them were going to stand out no matter what, he feared. “Do you need anything before we leave?” he asked her matter-of-factly.

“I’d like to eat something,” she responded in kind. “If it’s going to be several hours.”

He nodded and headed in the direction of the transport lot, keeping an eye out for food stands. They seemed to be everywhere until you wanted one. He held Natasha’s hand, of course, and kept looking back at her to make sure she was keeping up. “Do your feet hurt?” he asked at one point, frowning.

“No,” she insisted, and stepped down harder on the packed dirt in her woefully inappropriate, but sexy, high heels.

He decided to take her at her word. “You want a hot dog?” he asked, finally seeing a stand up ahead.

“Sure,” she agreed immediately, and he wondered if she’d ever eaten a hot dog before in her life. He got the feeling she was used to velvet chairs and champagne herself.

“So you’re the lucky one,” said a voice behind them, and Natasha’s hand spasmed in his own. Clint turned to see an older but well-built man approaching them, his suit expensive and out of place, but his manner confident.

“What,” Clint replied deliberately.

“The lucky one who bought my little Natasha,” the man went on, affable but with a menacing undertone. “Hoped I’d get a glimpse of you.”

“You’re her former owner?” Clint confirmed. “Why did you sell her?”

The man laughed at his bluntness. “Well, I’ll just let you figure that one out,” he replied, in an unreassuring way. “She _is_ a pretty thing, though,” he added with a trace of regret, reaching out his hand toward her cheek.

Natasha flinched and Clint slid smoothly in between them, his expression clearly daring the man to try touching _his_ property again. It was considered rather rude to touch someone else’s slaves without the owner’s permission, whether they used to belong to you or not. The man drew back, narrowing his eyes slightly, and searched for something else unpleasant to say.

“Hunter, huh,” he noted cheerfully. “Dangerous profession. You must be well-suited to it, huh?” Now he was just trying to scare Natasha, about what her new owner would be like. Clint refused to rise to the bait. “Must be a lot of money in hunting down runaway slaves.”

“I work mostly with criminals,” Clint finally countered, before he could stop himself.

“Runaway slaves are criminals, aren’t they?” the man asked innocently. Clint was not getting into a debate about this, with this man who was just trying to make trouble for no discernable reason—jealousy, perhaps, that Natasha was with Clint now, or petty vengeance.

“Nice to meet you,” Clint finally said, dismissively, and the man smirked and took the hint.

“Well, if I ever need a hunter I’ll look you up,” he promised, which sounded more like a threat.

He backed off and Clint started moving again, pulling Natasha along behind him. They walked right past the hot dog stand. “I have food on the transport,” he suggested to her.

“I can wait,” she agreed quickly. Neither felt like lingering at the fair any longer.

Her feet definitely seemed to be hurting by the time they made it to the transport lot, but she didn’t complain. He summoned his vehicle and glanced around, as he had been for the last several minutes, as if expecting to see Natasha’s former owner pop up out of the shadows again. She tugged on his hand to get his attention. “Would it be okay if I--?” She indicated the restrooms nearby.

“Actually I have one on the transport,” he said, which was good because allowing your new slave to go off to the bathroom at a busy fair was probably the number one excuse the Hunters who _did_ specialize in runaway slaves heard.

“Really?” she said with some surprise. Then the transport pulled up. It was larger than average, though not especially flashy on the outside. “I guess so,” she conceded.

“I travel a lot,” he explained, opening the door for her. He made sure all the other doors stayed locked as he let her go into the interior, then followed her in and shut the door behind himself. Natasha sat demurely in one of the seats and Clint programmed the course home, adding a password protection to it. He did not really get the impression Natasha was dangerous or eager to escape, but there was no point in being foolish.

Clint stashed his bow and arrows in a locker, settled down, and started up the ride. He needed to call Phil and tell him he’d added a new person to the household—maybe the housekeeper would be able to find some clothes for her. It was short notice but doubting Phil’s resourcefulness was always a mistake.

When the car got up to speed he stood and slid aside a door into the rest of the vehicle. “Toilet,” he pointed out to Natasha, indicating a door on the right. “Shower,” a door on the left. “Kitchen,” he finished, which was straight ahead.

“Nice,” she admitted, then maneuvered into the tiny toilet room.

Clint darkened the windows of the seating area and dialed home while kicking off his boots. “You are not gonna believe what I did,” he said when Phil answered, trying to keep his voice low. He grabbed a pair of pants from a locker, hoping to change before Natasha came back out—he didn’t want her to think he was trying to rush her.

“ _You bought a bedslave for a ridiculously large amount of money_ ,” Phil replied flatly, and Clint almost dropped the phone.

“How did you know that?” he demanded.

“ _I’m watching your accounts, Barton_ ,” Phil explained, as though he were a small child. “ _You got paid for the Briar Patch job, then dropped a whole lot of money at the county fair. Of all places_.”

“Well she’s very—“ The bathroom door opened and Natasha stepped out, looking at him curiously. He did at least have pants back on, but no shirt or shoes.

“ _I’m sure she’s very_ ,” Phil commented dryly.

“Anything you can find in the kitchen,” Clint told Natasha quickly and she turned away warily. He shut the door between them. “She’s, well—It was an impulse,” Clint admitted to Phil. “Can you find any clothes for her?”

“ _Already working on it_ ,” Phil promised. “ _Her contract didn’t list any possessions_.”

“No, her previous owner is a real a-----e,” Clint judged, continuing to dress. “Stopped us in the middle of the fair to try and, I don’t know, make me regret buying her, or scare her or something.”

“ _That would be Royden Prescott Miller III_ ,” Phil specified. “ _He bought her right out of a Home when she was fifteen_.”

“Okay, how do you know _that_ ,” Clint demanded, tying his shoes, “because _I_ don’t even know that.”

“ _It’s all out there on the Internet, Barton_ ,” Phil informed him. “ _Well, I’ve got her records from the Home, but it’s safe to say they’re useless after twelve years of living with Miller_ ,” he admitted. “ _I’ve got nothing from_ that _time, so do me a favor and get a health scan before you come home_.”

“I was going to,” Clint claimed.

“ _I really_ can’t _believe you spent that much money on her_ ,” Phil sighed.

“You will when you see her,” Clint predicted cheekily.

“ _Hey, one more thing_ ,” Phil added, his tone more serious. “ _Some of the articles coming up about Miller—it seems like he’s not very nice_.” Phil had such a talent for understatement. “ _You keep an eye on her in case she’s blitzed_.”

“Oh, I know she is,” Clint assured him, if such a thing could be called reassuring, before he hung up.

When he opened the door again he had a nice view of Natasha’s rear end as she bent over to look in a cabinet. She caught him staring and he didn’t let himself look guilty or apologetic, because that’s what she was there for, but he stayed back at the doorway. “Did you find anything to eat?” he asked.

She straightened up, turning around with a box in her hand and an unsatisfied expression. “Protein bars?” she questioned. “Peanut butter, beef jerky…”

“I eat a lot of protein,” he admitted.

“You do _know_ there’s other food groups, right?” she commented teasingly.

“There might be some yogurt in the fridge,” he suggested. “Or some dried fruit in the—in the cabinet.” He had moved too fast to point and she’d turned away quickly, maybe anticipating that he would hit her. Which didn’t entirely make sense in context, but maybe that was how her life had been.

Natasha recovered quickly and tossed the box of protein bars aside. “Maybe later,” she decided. He leaned against the wall, watching her as she walked the width of the transport, as though admiring it, then turned and slunk up to him, boldly sliding her hands up his chest to his shoulders. He rested his hands lightly on her hips, waiting for her next move. “So what else is there to do around here?” she asked coyly.

“I can think of a couple things,” he replied, so clichéd, and leaned down to kiss her. She turned her face away at the last moment, which was interesting, but he didn’t mind kissing her jaw and neck instead. He suspected her moans were fake, because they’d barely met and there was no reason for her to be that attracted to him already; but they were subtle and effective. His hands slid up her ribs, thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts as he placed kisses along her collarbone.

“You wanna see?” she offered suddenly, stepping away from him. “You wanna see what you bought?” She hooked her thumbs under the straps of the dress and slowly peeled it down, pushing it off her hips to pool around her feet. Clint didn’t have to look away for a second to darken the windows. “Such a gentleman,” she teased, kicking the dress aside. She wore a black strapless bra and matching panties that hugged her curves _very_ well when she slowly turned in place. “What should I take off next?” she asked him.

He knew it was just a performance. She was trying to get on his good side, find out his tastes, make him want to treat her well, or at least not badly. He already knew he was going to treat her well, because he wasn’t an a-----e; but _she_ didn’t know that, it wasn’t the kind of thing you could just say to someone and have them believe. He fully intended to _show_ her, and then maybe, eventually, it wouldn’t be a performance at all.

“C’mere,” he said, drawing her back to him. He was careful not to pull in an aggressive way. He turned so her back was against the wall and his eyes flickered down to her lips as he prepared to try and kiss her again. She suddenly had the urge to take his shirt off, which he didn’t mind, but she dodged again when he leaned down towards her.

“You don’t like kissing?” he suggested, holding himself far enough away to see her expression.

She shrugged a little and his eyes immediately dropped to her moving breasts. Men were simple like that, he had to admit. Or at least _he_ was. He forced his gaze back up to hers, refusing to be distracted for long. She moved on to her next tactic of running her hands over his bare chest, squeezing the muscles in his arms. “There’s just so many other exciting things we could be doing instead,” she purred, her hand straying down to his pants.

He caught it before he got there and draped it back around his neck. So she had a thing about kissing on the mouth. Well, they could work on that later. “I’ve got something in mind,” he murmured in her ear, and he slipped two fingers down beneath the waistband of her panties.

“Shouldn’t we—sit down?” she gasped, in between breathy moans that were really starting to annoy him. He tried to tune them out and focus on her body’s response, to moving his fingers here or there, circling or pressing, fast or slow.

“I’ve got excellent balance,” he assured her, as the transport swayed slightly. He braced one hand on her hip, trying to ignore his own arousal as he read every sign of hers, but it was surprisingly difficult and thus frustrating.

“Come on, baby, it’s okay, come on,” he told her, in case there was any doubt about what he was going for. He pulled one of her legs up over his hip, giving him better access, and some of her responses genuinely increased but others didn’t. He pressed a kiss between her breasts and realized her heart wasn’t even pounding, which was pretty d—n pathetic on his part. As an experiment he stopped really trying and just watched her; if anything this seemed to increase her enthusiasm, the mindless twiddling of his fingers. She let out a climactic moan and slowly calmed down, panting and lolling her head in apparent satisfaction.

“Does that actually fool people?” he asked curiously, pulling his hand away. Her expression said it actually did and he felt slightly mean for saying it. “It’s okay, we’ll try again, a real one this time,” he promised. He dropped her leg and tugged her towards the seating cabin. “Do you want to lie down? The seat becomes a bed—“ He was used to the slight rocking of the transport, but maybe she wasn’t.

Natasha stopped moving, bringing him to a standstill as well. “It’s not gonna happen,” she muttered, eyes slanting sideways.

Clint stopped to look at her. “What, never?” He found that difficult to believe, or maybe accept was the better word. “Come on,” he coaxed, keeping his tone light. “Not even if I—“ He dropped to his knees, awkward in the cramped space, and pressed a kiss against her pale thigh, sliding his hand up to spread them further. He thought he was finally getting somewhere when suddenly she made a noise like he was hurting her, and he knew he wasn’t, not even kneeling on her toe or something like that.

Clint pulled back quickly and stood, blocking her in with his arms on the wall when she tried to turn away. “Hey, come on, what’s wrong?” He understood that this probably wasn’t the life she would’ve chosen for herself, and maybe she wouldn’t have picked him for a master; but _she’d_ started winding him up, and he was only trying to show her that he was a decent guy to belong to.

She got control of herself and when she looked back it was the seductive mask again, which he was really beginning to hate. “Let’s do something else,” she suggested, reaching determinedly for his pants.

He stopped her again, trying to read something honest and useful in her crystal blue eyes. He suspected she had a lot of practice at hiding those things, though. “It’s okay, I’ll wait,” he told her, and when he let her hands go she turned away, hiding her expression behind her hair. She held herself tensely and flinched when he brushed his hand over her hip, so he dropped it and backed away.

“There’s something else you can do that I would like, which involves taking off all your clothes,” he told her lightly.

“What’s that?” she asked, not looking at him.

“Health scan.”

Now Natasha faced him, a twist of a smile on her lips. “Oh, you’re funny,” she noted dryly.

“Hunters are well-known for their sense of humor,” he deadpanned, and he thought maybe she _considered_ smiling, for real. “It’s in the shower stall. There’s a button.”

“Convenient,” she replied, and she reached up behind her back to undo her bra.

Clint turned away, looking for where his shirt had gotten to. Probably the more layers he had on right now, the better. “Yeah, well, I get hurt a lot,” he explained, finally locating the discarded item. He heard the shower door slide open and shut, and looked back to see her bra, panties, and heels in a pile on the floor. He nearly tripped over her dress and picked it up carefully, since it was the only thing she had to wear, and hung it from two pegs in the kitchen. Then he detached a pad from the wall and sat down to watch her scan results come in. In some ways this seemed more intimate even than having sex.

The numbers and ratings were good. Very good. _Too_ good. She didn’t have a single scar, never had a broken bone, no disease indicators, not so much as a pimple. The physiological values were all at or near the top of the scale. If you were creating a fake health scan you wouldn’t even use numbers like these, because they would draw too much attention. In fact he’d only seen ratings like these on a handful of people in his life.

And he was one of them.

He scrolled down to her genetic profile and found that section lacking. He waited a moment, to see if the icon changed to indicate processing, then stood and went to the stall. “Natasha?” he called. “Have you done the finger prick yet? It needs a blood sample for the genetic scan.” Of course, everyone knew that.

There was no answer, and the results did not appear as he stood there. “Natasha?” He knocked on the shower door, then slid it aside. He saw the smooth, creamy expanse of her back and let his eyes drop downwards before they bounced back up and met her darkly amused gaze over her shoulder. He tried to remember what his reason was for opening the door, though it seemed like a perfectly good idea as it was.

“Uh, blood,” he finally babbled. “For the scan. Right there.” She couldn’t possibly have missed the blinking light above the plastic cover shielding a small needle.

Reluctantly, as if she’d thought she could get away without it, Natasha lifted the cover and pressed her finger against the needle, letting it draw a drop of blood. Clint leaned back against the wall, no longer staring at her, and watched the data stream in. Finally the line he was looking for came up.

“You’re a healer,” he observed, as the rare allele popped up in her genome. “Homozygous,” he added, now truly impressed, as the second, identical gene appeared. “I’m only a het myself.”

“No wonder you’re such a successful Hunter,” Natasha commented after a moment. The ability to heal from an injury more quickly than ordinary people was definitely an advantage in his line of work.

“Why wasn’t this advertised at the auction?” he asked curiously. “You could have gone for ten times the final price.”

“Even with your ridiculous last-minute raise?” she asked dryly.

“Even so. The breeding houses—“

“I’ve never been used for breeding,” Natasha countered quickly, and he scrolled back up to a section he’d only skimmed. Indeed, she’d never even been pregnant. “I have an implant,” she added, just before he read it. Although technically an implant could be removed to allow a woman to become pregnant, it was a difficult process, and was usually seen as a permanent form of birth control. “I’ve had it since I was bought from the Home.”

“Your master put it in?” he checked. “The previous guy?” She indicated yes.

A bedslave with advanced healing powers who wasn’t used for breeding. Combined with the memory that had triggered his purchase of her it added up to a very ugly picture of what her life might have been like for the past twelve years, and frankly he felt slightly sick at his earlier enthusiasm for her. Sometimes the ability to heal quickly just meant that people could hurt you again, that much sooner.

“Um, you can take a shower if you want,” he suggested, pushing through to the seating area and shutting the door in between them. He threw himself down on the seat and pulled out his phone, only to see a text message from Phil twenty minutes earlier. It read simply _HH_. Clint dialed. “You got that from her Home records, right?” he guessed.

“ _Genes don’t change_ ,” Phil agreed. “ _Well, not usually. Didn’t know she had an implant, though_ ,” he added, seeing the health scan results roll in himself. “ _And never been pregnant_.”

“Yeah, he was a sick f—k, apparently,” Clint said shortly.

“ _Rough trade_ ,” Phil tried to shrug off. “ _Is she telling you sob stories?_ ”

“Not a word,” Clint promised. “She’s got some issues, though. In retrospect not as many as one would think,” he decided, and Phil snorted.

“ _All the_ really _good issues take time to uncover_ ,” he judged with dark humor.

“Oh, G-d, I didn’t think to check,” Clint sighed suddenly. “We’re not related, are we?”

“That _would make a good issue_ ,” Phil muttered as he checked. “ _Looks like no, at least not more than anyone else_ ,” he finally revealed.

This did not relieve Clint as much as he’d hoped it would. “Please tell me you’ve at least got some nice things waiting for her,” he requested, a bit desperately.

He could sense Phil’s disapproval radiating through the phone. “ _You feel sorry for her because you are soft and squishy_ —“ he began, and there were not many people who could get away with saying that to Clint.

“I feel sorry for her because she’s had a f-----g terrible life,” he interrupted to protest.

“— _soft and squishy_ ,” Phil repeated, “ _and it could have been you, but at least you could shoot_ ,” he went on. “ _And you were a mangy little scoundrel at first_ —“

“You’re so sentimental tonight, Phil,” Clint said dryly.

“ _If you’d let me finish a thought_ ,” Phil countered. “ _You’d learned survival skills on your own and you could be very dangerous if you felt threatened_.”

“What’s with the past tense?” He was _still_ dangerous.

Phil ignored this. “ _The same’s probably true for her. You wanna give her kisses and lollipops and make it all better, and meanwhile she’s putting strychnine in your oatmeal_.”

“Phil.”

“ _Listen to me_ ,” the older man insisted. “ _Whatever she’s known for twelve years with Miller, that’s_ all _she’s known. I know you want to be nice to her. But if that’s different from what she’s known, it might feel threatening to her._ ”

“What, so I should be _mean_?” Clint asked, knowing that wasn’t what he meant.

“ _Be firm_ ,” Phil corrected. “ _And give her some space. Don’t go jumping all over her, trying to be all Lover Boy_.” Clint’s silence projected guilt. “ _Barton?_ ”

“Okay, well, _she_ jumped _me_ —“ Phil sighed loudly. “It did not end satisfactorily,” Clint was forced to admit.

“ _Please try to at least make it home with all your limbs intact_ ,” Phil requested. “ _Don’t let her put her teeth_ —“

Natasha slid the door open, wrapped in a towel. “Gotta go, Phil,” Clint said abruptly, ending the call.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt,” Natasha claimed, not sounding very sorry.

“Just my housekeeper,” Clint explained to her. “He’s getting things ready for you.”

“That’s nice.” He had the feeling she might be expecting something different than he was.

Clint stood and reached for a locker. “Do you want—“ When he looked back around he saw that she’d backed up noticeably. “—something to wear?” he ended, the question taking on a new tone of hesitation. “Just like what I’m wearing,” he went on. “It won’t fit well but maybe it’s more comfortable than a towel.” She made no response and he retrieved the t-shirt and loose pants. “We’re still about three hours out.”

“Sure, thanks,” she finally told him, and he walked the clothes over to her, then politely turned his back when she started to change. “Not my sexiest look,” she commented after a moment, and he turned to see her drowning in the clothes, barely holding the pants up.

“Well, we match now,” he pointed out lightly.

Natasha dared to walk a little closer. “Are all your clothes the same?” she teased. “Little bit anal there.”

“That would be my housekeeper,” Clint replied dryly. “You wanna lie down?” He pushed a button on the wall and the long seat running the width of the transport unfolded itself into a bed, taking up most of the room in the seating compartment. Natasha was not unimpressed, he thought, but she hesitated.

“Come on,” Clint coaxed. “It won’t—snap back into the wall and trap you.”

“Actually hadn’t thought of that, thanks,” she replied, her tone indicating she was certainly thinking about it _now_. She climbed onto the bed anyway, and Clint, mindful of Phil’s advice, stayed on one of the remaining seats, just propping his feet up on the bed. “Are you expecting that I’ll travel a lot with you?” Natasha asked, lying down on her side facing him. “In this?”

“No,” Clint promised. “I’m expecting that you’ll stay at the house in the country most of the time. When I travel it’s mostly for work, and I don’t bring company.”

Natasha nodded. “Do you have any other slaves?”

“No,” Clint repeated. “There’s a number of servants at the house, to take care of it and the grounds.” He paused, then added, “Actually I was born in a Slave Home.” Natasha’s eyes widened slightly. “Yeah, a c----y one in an outlying district,” he went on, trying to sound casual, though in truth he really didn’t like talking about it. “I ran away when I was a kid, and I had this talent for shooting so I fell in with—Well, anyway, then I became a Hunter,” he summarized quickly. “It’s kind of boring there in the middle,” he claimed.

“I’m sure,” Natasha demurred. “Well, as I said, I went straight from the Home to my previous master. We always lived in the city, except for vacations at the beach house.” On the surface her words seemed light, indulgent even, but there was an underlying tension to them.

“Just you and your master?” Clint pressed. “No other slaves, family members?”

“A few servants, of course,” she shrugged, “but generally just me and my master. And his friends,” she added slowly.

Clint’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the seat. Suddenly other things made sense now, and he hated Miller even more—it wasn’t enough to torture the girl himself, he had to pass her along to all his friends as well. In the silence that had fallen Natasha curled up slightly on the bed as though chilled. “It’s hard to believe I don’t still belong to him,” she said softly. “That we’re not just going away for the weekend, and you’ll bring me back to him on Monday.”

“I’m not bringing you back to him,” Clint refuted, in a sharper tone than he’d intended. Natasha’s gaze skittered around the room, like the words meant little to her. He stood abruptly and climbed onto the bed. “There’s a blanket—“ The too-sudden movement made her sit up, wary and alert, though she hadn’t backed away—that almost made it worse, he thought, like she was just waiting for his inevitable attack and maybe even wished he would get started already.

“Sorry,” he told her deliberately, pulling out the blanket he’d been reaching for. He thought about just handing it to her and backing away again; no doubt Phil would have advised that. But Clint hadn’t gotten this far by _always_ following Phil’s advice.

“C’mere,” he told Natasha, and she crawled closer readily, to play her part in the scenario she understood. She smiled and slipped her hands over his shoulders, and even though Clint knew she was faking, faking out of sheer survival instinct, he was still dazzled. Slowly he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, drawing it closed in the front such that she was forced to drop her hands from him. This perplexed her.

“In my possession,” Clint told her, “you serve only me.”

“I always serve my master,” she responded promptly, challengingly, because she was going to make him say it, explicitly.

“No one else touches you,” he said firmly, “or watches or listens or anything else.” He couldn’t think of all the loopholes but trusted she got the idea. Whether she believed it or not was another matter. “You’re only for me. Understand?” Maybe if he phrased it as some kind of duty on her part—no having sex with other people, like she might really want to—it would seem more normal to her.

Natasha nodded slowly and Clint let the blanket go, backing away off the bed to return to his seat. She settled back down, adjusting the blanket around herself. He imagined she seemed more at ease, but maybe this was just wishful thinking. “So what do you like to do?” he asked after a moment, his tone casual.

Natasha straightened, businesslike. “I’m familiar with a wide range of techniques, mostly informal—oral, anal, bondage, multiple partners, women—“

Clint’s eyebrows shot up. “No, I mean, uh—hobbies. You know? In your free time. Sorry,” he added.

“Oh.” This question was more difficult to answer. “Um… I like to read,” she finally said.

“Excellent,” Clint encouraged. “I have a big library.”

“I like listening to music,” Natasha went on, which was a little vague but she seemed to be thinking of some specific incident.

“We can handle that,” Clint promised. “I’ve got the whole satellite network, audio, video, games, information.”

“I like walking on the beach.”

“Haven’t got a beach, sorry,” he had to admit. “There’s a pond, though, with fish, and there’s woods and meadows, and gardens, and—Do you like animals?” he asked suddenly, and she became very still. He dared to roll his eyes. “Not everything goes straight to sex, you know. I mean like, riding horses. Or having pets. There are horses and cats and dogs around.”

“I don’t really have much experience with animals,” she replied, “but of course, I can learn.”

“You aren’t _required_ to learn,” Clint assured her. “They’ll just be there if you _want_ to use them. _I’ll_ be using them.”

She nodded slowly. “You’ve mentioned several things I _won’t_ be required to do,” she noted carefully. “May I ask, what _will_ be required of me?”

Clint found this difficult to answer. “Well, you’ll stay on the property,” he began, going for the basics. “Don’t try to run away or anything. Um… don’t get into fights with people, or break things,” he continued lamely. Any cachet he’d gained by being born in a Slave Home was rapidly diminishing as he demonstrated that he’d obviously never owned a slave before.

“Look, I want you to be happy, that’s all,” he admitted, eyes straying to the windows. They had been tinted and he saw only his reflection, and hers. “You can have your own room, food, clothes. Wander around the house and grounds at will. Use whatever you want. Read a book, ride a horse, whatever you want.” He risked glancing back up at her, slightly embarrassed.

Natasha’s expression was far from scornful, however. Of course she didn’t really trust that this would be so pleasant; but she seemed to grasp his sincerity, that he _wanted_ it to be pleasant. And, he could see, she didn’t know how to react to such a thing, it was so far outside the realm of her experience. He sighed and leaned back in his seat.

“Will I be required to have sex with you?” she asked, struggling to find something she understood.

“Not required, no,” Clint told her firmly. “I hope that at some point you will _want_ to have sex with me,” he added frankly, “because you are very attractive. But I guess that probably won’t happen right away.”

“Sexual companionship is my main occupation,” Natasha pointed out, and he realized how poorly he’d concealed his disappointment. “I don’t—Do you want me to seduce you?” she asked with a frown. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not sure what you want. Master,” she added belatedly.

Clint sighed. “No, let’s just—“ Phil would’ve been so much better at explaining this. “I want you to enjoy it,” he told her, making eye contact. “When we have sex I want you to enjoy it. For real. Like we discussed before.” ‘Discussed’ was kind of a formal word for the situation, but she knew what he meant and her gaze dropped uncomfortably to her lap. “So we’ll just wait. Until then,” he finished.

She nodded again, and laid down on the bed, curling up under the blanket with her face turned away from him. Clint was not naïve about the world, he had seen a lot of horrible things, but he’d never been in the same bad place long enough that he’d thought _everywhere_ was like that, that he couldn’t understand any better life. Maybe when Phil had first found him—what was his charming description? A ‘mangy little scoundrel’ who, okay, had difficulty comprehending the idea that someone was going to be nice to him, and just asked for a little civilized behavior in return.

So, okay, _Natasha_ had difficulty comprehending the idea that someone was going to be nice to her, and just asked—well, he’d muddied the waters with the ‘hope we can have sex’ thing, he decided with frustration. It sounded too conditional. But on the other hand it was honest—he didn’t want to spring the sex on her later, once she’d gotten comfortable with the idea of never having it again.

Maybe she _didn’t_ want to have sex again. He couldn’t blame her for that. From her perspective it probably just brought out the worst in people, who subjected her to whatever they had in mind without regard to her own desires or even her health, to the point where the idea of enjoying it herself was an unattainable goal—His hands clenched his arms where they crossed his chest and he forced himself to relax, unfolding his arms and stretching. It didn’t help to dwell on the past, he just had to make sure her present and immediate future were better.

Though there was one key piece of the past he was still missing.

“Natasha,” he said, and she turned over to look at him. “Why were you sold?”

She sat up, knees under her chin, and drew the blanket around herself tightly. The glance she gave him was apprehensive.

“You know how much I paid for you,” he pointed out. “I’m not gonna open the door and toss you out.” He tried to say this lightly, not sure if she would understand the joke. “We’re over halfway home, I’m not gonna turn around and take you back. Come on, tell me,” he encouraged.

“I had a bad habit,” she finally said. Vague, but she had to know he would follow up. “My master said if I did it one more time he would sell me at auction. He thought maybe one of his friends would buy me,” she added.

“I’m not his friend.”

“I know.”

“What was the bad habit?” Clint pressed. He knew she couldn’t be talking about something like biting her nails; to sell a woman like Natasha, after all those years, it had to be something serious. “Were you stealing from his friends?” he guessed. “When they stayed over.” Lots of slaves did that, he knew, pocketing small trinkets or a few pieces of hard currency from the better-off people around them. A lot of them gave it away to others, too, to fellow slaves whose masters didn’t feed them enough, or street children.

“No,” Natasha denied, though this seemed somewhat close. He gave her a look that indicated she wouldn’t get out of telling him. “Sometimes, especially with his friends, I would… resist,” she finally revealed, so softly he could barely hear her. “Sometimes they were injured.”

Clint’s eyes widened slightly. He knew she had to be understating the case, and for a slave to attack a free person—her master might’ve been justified in _killing_ her for that. Another part of him wished _she’d_ done the killing, or at least chopped off some vital piece of anatomy from the sick b-----ds who used her.

He’d been quiet too long and Natasha glanced up to check his reaction. If she saw anger on his face she would probably misinterpret it so he quickly tried to smooth it away. “I’m going to get up and get something from a locker,” he advised her, rising carefully. He crossed to the other side of the cabin and turned his back to open one of the compartments. Phil was not going to like this, he thought, as he pulled out a belt with a small scabbard attached.

He turned and held it out to her. “This is yours,” he told her. “Don’t hesitate to use it to defend yourself. Er, maybe start with a disabling wound,” he amended, “and focus on getting away, instead of killing them.” In case she misinterpreted something.

Staring at him as though she didn’t understand what language he was speaking, Natasha took the knife and its holder. “I mean, you won’t ever use it,” Clint predicted, “because everyone at the house is nice, they’ve been there for years, and we never get visitors. But just in case. You have it if you need it.”

Natasha opened the flap of the scabbard and Clint quickly turned away, returning to his seat. She might recognize the design on the hilt, and for some reason he wasn’t ready to admit that they’d met before. When he looked at her again she was examining the rest of the knife, as if making sure it wasn’t somehow a trick.

Clint put his feet up on the bed and slouched in his seat. “Well, I’m gonna take a nap before we get home,” he announced, trying to get comfortable.

“Do you want to sleep here?” Natasha asked him, scooting closer to the wall. “There’s plenty of room.”

He would, he really would—it would be so much more comfortable. “You’re okay with that?” he checked, not changing position. She gave a coquettish little shrug, but she seemed slightly more relaxed—amazing what a dagger could do for some girls—so he decided to take her up on her offer. “Alright then.” He stood and kicked his shoes off, then climbed onto the mattress. “Okay if I dim the lights?”

“Of course.”

He left a few on faintly, in case someone wanted to get up later, then settled down on the bed on his side, one arm under a pillow. “Would you come here and lie down?” he asked her, trying to phrase it as the request it really was. He wanted her to feel safe and comfortable; but if she could learn to feel safe and comfortable in close proximity to him, so much the better.

Natasha considered this, then scooted closer, close enough that he could rest his hand on her arm on the mattress. That would have to do for the moment, he decided, and he closed his eyes.

**

Clint could sleep anywhere, and wake more or less at a set time; it was a neat trick, and very useful. After about an hour his eyes started to flutter open and he saw Natasha just a few inches away, watching him. He smiled at her. “Did you get any sleep?” he wanted to know.

“Not much,” she admitted.

This made him think of something else and he sat up quickly. “S—t, I didn’t get you anything to eat,” he chided himself.

“It’s okay,” she assured him quickly, but he wasn’t buying it.

“You were hungry hours ago,” he pointed out. “You were going to eat a _hot dog_. Are you not hungry anymore?” He gave her a long look.

“I am,” she admitted, and he stood, heading for the other compartment. “Not very much, it’s not a big deal,” she called after him.

He realized she must be picking up on the tension in his body as he moved around—in her life she probably got very good at reading body language very quickly. Though she tended to interpret it wrong, in his opinion, though obviously experience had taught her to err on the side of submission.

“I’m not mad at you,” he called back, digging in the cabinets for something less hearty than his usual fare. “I’m mad at myself for forgetting. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?” he checked.

“No.”

He hadn’t expected so, but these days you never knew. A healer who was allergic to something—you eat it, get sick, then feel better when maybe you should be dead. Maybe it was possible.

Clint walked back into the front cabin and dropped back down on the bed, opening a bag of trail mix between them. “Nuts, fruit, yogurt-covered raisins, pretzels, chocolate,” he pointed out. “Everything you need. What’s your favorite food?”

Natasha straightened up, as if she needed extra strength to survive his pop quizzes. “Strawberries with champagne,” she answered.

“Really? Ooh, fancy,” Clint commented. “I don’t know if we have any champagne. We have a wine cellar, Phil is kind of a wine nut.”

“Who’s Phil?” she inquired.

“Oh, he’s my housekeeper,” Clint explained. “He’s more of a… Keeper of the House, if you see what I mean.” She didn’t. “He’s in charge while I’m gone. He manages things. Actually he found me and helped train me as a Hunter,” he finally said.

“Your housekeeper?” Natasha repeated in some confusion. “He doesn’t sound like other housekeepers I’ve met.”

“He isn’t,” Clint agreed. “You’ll love him, he’s a great guy. A little stern sometimes. If you have any problems and I’m not there, go to Phil. H—l, if you come to me I’ll probably just go to Phil anyway.”

Natasha carefully ate a few pieces of trail mix. “You’ve known him a long time?”

“Years and years.” He looked over at her. “Do you really like strawberries and champagne best, or is that just something you say?”

“I like it,” Natasha replied in a qualifying tone. “I don’t know if it’s my _favorite_. What’s _your_ favorite food?”

“G-d, steak comes to mind,” Clint replied immediately. He was hungry himself, and already salivating at the thought of made-to-order meals from his staff instead of packaged or fast food. “Medium, pink inside, tender and juicy…” He saw her expression. “Sorry, are you a vegetarian?”

“No,” she assured him. “I just…” He encouraged her with a look. “I’m not sure I like _any_ food that much,” she finally admitted. “It’s just… there.”

Clint shrugged. “Well, you can eat what you want,” he promised. “There’s a whole kitchen staff. Do you know how to cook?”

“No,” Natasha told him, adding quickly, “Should I learn?”

“Only if you want to.” He could see his responses frustrated her. He could try explaining again, but he didn’t think it would do any good; she would just have to see for herself. “One thing, though,” he added, and she listened attentively. “You should eat when you’re hungry. Don’t wait for permission. Same with sleeping or whatever. Just do it, or tell me you need to, if I forgot.”

This command, such as it was, was as confusing to her as all his others. She nodded dutifully anyway.

Clint checked the time. “Ooh, only about forty-five minutes until we get home,” he announced. “Did you want to change back into your dress, or just wear that?”

“Which would you prefer, Master?” she countered.

“Could you just call me Clint?” he asked. “That’s what I would prefer.”

This, at least, didn’t seem to bother her much. “As you wish, Clint.” She purred a little when she said his name, which he really liked. And the way she gazed at him made him remember they were alone on a bed, and forget everything else.

Until his eye caught sight of the knife he’d given her and he quickly reminded himself to _not_ be one of the people she’d encountered before, who took advantage of her. Even if she was the one doing all the work.

He rolled away and sat up. “Um, so, yeah. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, only forty-five minutes to go.”

“Do you wish me to wear these clothes, or change?” Natasha prompted him.

“Up to you,” Clint insisted, standing. “Actually I’m gonna change, back into my uniform,” he decided, trying to remember which locker he’d stowed it in. “It’s kinda dumb, I guess, but it’s more, you know, heroic or something to stride off the transport in my uniform. Well, Phil likes it,” he finished, eagerly throwing the other man the blame.

“I’ll change back into my dress, then,” Natasha said. It sounded like a firm decision of her own volition, but more likely she was guessing that it was his unstated preference. She climbed off the bed and he gestured for her to go into the kitchen cabin, where all the components of her outfit were. Then he slid the door shut between them, stowed the bed, and changed his own clothes. Phil _did_ like the Hunter’s uniform; he’d mentioned once, very quickly, how proud he was of Clint for achieving it, for excelling in it, and Clint always remembered that and made an effort to wear it when he first came home from a job.

Natasha knocked on the door as he was tying his boots. “Come in, I’m decent,” he called, and she slid the door open. His eyes traveled up her legs to the curves sheathed by the tight black dress, to the undeniable cleavage displayed by the neckline (which was pretty far away from her neck), to the pale column of her throat, and finally the seductive, yet also amused, expression on her face.

“I think changing was a good idea,” he said dryly. Then, to distract himself, he turned off the lights in the cabin and cleared the windows. “Here, take a look outside.” Natasha slid past him, her legs rubbing his, then settled into the seat closer to the window. He scooted closer as well, one arm lightly around her shoulders and the other pointing at the view. “See all the trees? We’re in the middle of a forest.”

She quickly forgot her seductress routine as she goggled out the window. “Oh my G-d, I didn’t think there would be so… many trees,” she admitted. “Are there any… buildings?”

Clint chuckled. “No, you’re in the sticks, darlin’,” he informed her. “There are trees and bears and elk and coyotes. And some flight beacons and even a ground road that’s still in use. Oh, here’s some buildings,” he added. “This is the nearest village, Hawksmoor—oh, there it went.” Natasha stared after it, her only glimpse of civilization. “We’ll go there sometime and look around.”

“What’s… there?” she asked dubiously of the village.

“There’s a grocery store, some churches, a couple of diners, some antique stores…” He thought a moment. “That’s about it, really. Look, here’s some more _trees_.” Now he was just teasing her, enjoying the mild alarm she tried to conceal at the thought of living in the middle of the woods, far away from the penthouses, cocktail parties, and costume balls she was used to.

Far away from the a-----es, too.

“You said you had a _large_ house, didn’t you?” she tried to clarify. “With a library, and horses—“

“It’s very nice,” he assured her. “We have running water, which is often hot, and electricity most of the time.”

She looked at him sharply and Clint just grinned, to show he was just messing with her in an innocent way. Natasha rolled her eyes at him but he saw the hint of an answering smirk on her lips.

“We’re coming up to it now,” he told her, reaching back to tap some commands on a panel. When his arm around her shoulders moved she moved with it instead of pulling away. The transport slowed and changed direction, flying sideways so the view out the window showed their approach. “I hope Phil has the lights on, it looks really impressive with all the lights on.”

They sailed over a grove of trees and the house came into sight, indeed blazing with light from every window. Knowing Phil they’d all been turned on less than a minute ago and would be turned off as soon as they were inside. But the effect was opulent, disorienting almost, with the mind struggling to see how all of those squares of light fit into one building—three or maybe four levels high, and was it set at an angle or was it really that long, and were those pillars in front or actual trees?

“This is your house?” Natasha asked, and Clint decided her response was positive.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, modestly, maybe even a touch embarrassed. “The columns are pretentious, right? That’s what I told Phil, but…”

She considered this. “I would have to see it in daylight first,” she demurred, and he laughed.

“Look, there’s Phil and everyone, standing out front,” he pointed out as they began to land. “G-d, it’s nearly midnight. Phil is kind of old-school that way. Very formal. But don’t let him scare you, he’s really a big pussycat,” Clint added as he stood and slung his bow over his shoulder. He stopped when he saw Natasha staring at him. “What?”

“You seem very different, when you’re dressed like that,” she observed cryptically.

Clint wasn’t certain how to take that. “Different better or different worse?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Natasha replied thoughtfully.

The transport landed with a gentle bump. “Okay then.” He would have to follow that up later. “Do you have everything?”

“I didn’t really have anything,” she reminded him, standing.

“Oh, right.”

“Is it cold? Should I put on the cloak?” she asked him.

“No, it’s probably muggy if anything,” Clint assured her. “Leave it here if you want, Phil will put it away.” Dutifully she dropped it back on the seat.

Finally Clint turned and keyed open the door. The seal broke with a hiss, letting the warm, damp air heavy with the scent of earth and pine into the sterile transport. He stepped over the threshold onto the lawn, facing Phil and a line of sleepy-eyed staff. The nondescript, slightly balding housekeeper liked these occasions to be formal and dignified, but after a moment, Clint burst into a grin, pleased to be home again after a successful job.

“Welcome home, sir—“ Phil began, but he was cut off when Clint grabbed him in a bear hug.

“G-d, it’s good to be home,” he enthused. “I can’t believe you made everyone get up and stand out here!”

“Well, I—“

“Thanks, guys, appreciate it,” Clint told them en masse, “but d—n, go back to bed! Oh, except, Mrs. McClatchy, do you think someone from the kitchen could make me a snack? I’m starving.” Which reminded him of something very important. “And a snack for—“ He didn’t want to call her his slave; guest and friend weren’t right, either. “For Natasha,” he finally said, reaching back to offer her a hand.

She took it and emerged from the transport slowly, elegantly, like a queen stepping from her carriage, but without the haughty arrogance of royalty. She smiled at everyone, sweeping her eyes across all present as though she were genuinely thrilled to be meeting them and living here, and Clint was dazzled by it, even though he knew such poise was almost a survival instinct for someone in her position.

“Barton,” Phil hissed, not for the first time, his teeth clenched in a smile.

“Oh. Phil, this is Natasha,” Clint introduced, drawing her closer. “Natasha, this is Phil. He takes care of everything here.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Phil told her sincerely, his hands clasped firmly in front of him. He had deduced, or merely guessed, that a sudden movement might upset her.

“Thank you,” Natasha responded in kind. “Clint’s told me so much about you.”

Phil’s eyes flickered over to Clint. “Only good things,” Clint promised. “Well, mostly.” He looked over Phil’s shoulder. “Seriously, guys, go to bed,” he repeated to the staff. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Molly, make sure Natasha’s room is ready,” Phil ordered with quiet authority. “Kate, please prepare a light meal for two. Trent, see to the transport.”

Those who had been assigned tasks hurried to do them; those who had not took this as leave to disperse. “See, they don’t even do what _I_ tell them, only what _Phil_ tells them,” Clint pointed out to Natasha teasingly.

Phil cleared his throat loudly, trying to cover up Clint’s remark that would upset the balance of the universe, or something. “Please, this way,” he said to Natasha, gesturing for her to climb up the main steps past the pillars. As Clint passed him Phil pinched his arm slightly.

“What?” Clint asked innocently. Then, in more of a whisper, “Didn’t I tell you she was hot?”

Natasha’s backside swayed invitingly in front of them and Phil avoided answering, too discreet to say anything she might overhear. Besides, she was the only one who didn’t know where to go and she stopped just inside the foyer. A wide staircase rose up before her, white marble like the floor with a dramatic black runner, and split into two shorter sets of stairs that branched off to either side. The ceiling was a good thirty feet up, showcasing the two upper floors and a glass-paneled roof.

Natasha stared up at the room, then turned around slowly to raise an eyebrow at Clint, almost as if he’d done something wrong. If he’d expected her to be impressed—or at least to show it—he was going to be disappointed, her look said. She’d probably seen houses like this all the time, he thought, belonging to her former owner’s friends.

“It gets smaller,” Clint blurted suddenly, and her eyebrow rose higher. She probably didn’t hear _that_ one very often, he reflected. “I mean—the entry, it’s ostentatious to make an impression,” he explained hurriedly. “The other rooms are—more normal.” Except for the two-story wood-paneled library, the glass-covered indoor infinity pool with the water-spewing dolphins, the walk-in closet that was big enough to park the transport in and had its own _sink_ —That reminded him. “Did you get clothes for her?” he asked Phil.

Phil’s look suggested his inquiry was, somehow, gauche. “Yes, we obtained some basics via electron beam,” he replied, directing his words at Natasha. That meant they’d arrived quickly but weren’t the best quality. “If you’d like to go up to the second floor on the left,” he suggested to her, “or we can take the elevator. We can, of course, order more items for you tomorrow, to be delivered by hand,” he went on, following Natasha up the stairs.

“The Hunter lets delivery drivers onto the property?” she said with some amusement. Her hand trailed along the sleek railing like she’d used it a thousand times, not a gesture out of place.

“Uh, actually they deliver to the village,” Clint admitted, “and then someone runs them over, someone we know.” It occurred to him she might appreciate the security. “So it’s very safe here,” he went on. “You can wander all over the grounds and not worry about anything.” Natasha gave him an inscrutable look over her shoulder; and when she turned back, Phil gave him a chiding one. Sometimes Clint really didn’t understand his supposed wrongdoing.

“Thank you for your efforts,” Natasha continued to Phil. “It was on such short notice for you.”

“No problem at all,” Phil assured her.

“Hey, how do you know I didn’t _plan_ to buy a slave at the fair?” Clint challenged playfully. Neither of them were fooled.

“This hallway here,” Phil directed. “The master bedroom is at the end of it. I thought you might be comfortable here, in the Rose Room,” he went on, opening one of the doors. The bedroom was spacious, with a fireplace, multiple doors, windows letting in the moonlight, and a large four-poster bed where Molly was fluffing the pillows. “There are other suites if you would prefer something different,” he offered generously.

“Why do I even _have_ an all-pink room?” Clint asked idly, gazing around the pastel, feminine space. He was ignored.

“It’s beautiful, thank you,” Natasha responded graciously, encompassing both men. “Thank you—Molly,” she added as the maid scurried out.

“Do you—“ Clint was looking forward to spending more time with her, as much as possible, but he suddenly remembered Phil’s advice about space. “Maybe you would like to have your meal sent up here,” he suggested.

“Thank you, that would be lovely,” Natasha replied, and he couldn’t tell if she actually thought it _would_ be lovely, or was just agreeing with his obvious preference.

Phil felt it was prudent to withdraw at this point. “I’ll have your meal sent up right away,” he promised. “If you need anything, feel free to use the buzzer. Someone is always on duty.” Natasha nodded. “Goodnight. We look forward to seeing you in the morning.”

“Goodnight,” Natasha returned. “Thank you,” she added suddenly, a slight hitch in her voice causing her professional mask of glamor to slip momentarily. She turned away quickly and Phil left, closing the door behind him.

“So,” Clint said awkwardly, looking around the room. Impulsively he opened one of the bureau drawers. “Oh yeah, Phil got you lots of clothes—er, which I shouldn’t be digging in. Sorry,” he told her sheepishly, shutting the drawer. “I just wanted to check, I guess.”

“You own them as much as you own me,” Natasha pointed out simply.

Clint was not entirely comfortable with this. “Er, yeah.”

“Phil was very nice,” she went on, trailing her hand over the pink pillowy bedspread.

“Yeah, he’s a great guy,” Clint enthused. On this topic he was completely confident. “Anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. Here’s the viewscreen,” he pointed out, a bit obviously, “and the network station. There’s a couple of guys who monitor network traffic, so don’t, you know, upload nude photos of yourself or anything,” he warned, trying for levity.

She got the point. “Do you want me to sleep in your room?” she asked matter-of-factly, squaring her shoulders. Time for business, then.

“Not tonight,” Clint decided after a moment. She could probably use some time to herself. “But later, yeah, I would like you to sleep with me. Just sleep,” he emphasized, “if that’s all you feel like doing.”

Natasha nodded once. “What time should I be ready tomorrow?”

“Well, I want to show you around and have you meet people,” Clint planned, “and maybe you want to do some shopping online…” He could see this didn’t really answer her question. “How about nine? Is that too early? You can come downstairs earlier if you get hungry.”

“Nine is fine,” Natasha agreed.

He got the feeling she was more of a night owl. “I usually get up pretty early when I’m home,” he said apologetically. “Go for a run, that kind of thing.”

“Do you want me to go for a run with you?” She made the offer with admirable sincerity, but Clint didn’t really see her as the jogging type.

“No, that’s okay,” he assured her. “But feel free to work out in the gym. Only—um—“ Natasha waited expectantly. “Let’s go there together, the first time,” he suggested. He couldn’t think of a nice way to ask her to _not_ change the settings on his exercise equipment. Or at least to change them back when she was done, he wanted her to freely use them, too.

Maybe she could just have her own.

“So, nine,” Clint repeated. Natasha nodded. He began to back away towards the door. “Goodnight. I hope—I hope you like it here.”

She smiled, a genuine smile, at least for an instant. “Thank you. Goodnight.” He left her alone.

**

At six, Clint woke up, slightly disoriented for a moment to feel the big bed spreading out around him, and no vibrations from the transport. Then he remembered he was home, for a while at least, and that Natasha was here, too. Although probably still asleep.

He went for a jog around the grounds, the sky gradually lightening as the sun rose. There was a sharp chill to the air which dispersed quickly in the light, but there was no denying that the height of summer was past. He stopped by the barn and said hello to the horses—he really hoped Natasha was amenable to riding, he knew exactly which horse he would start her out on, a gentle honey-colored gelding. Then he jogged on back to the house, waving to the groundskeepers who were starting to venture across the lawn to perform their daily duties.

He _was_ a good Hunter and it _did_ pay well; but Clint gave equal credit to Phil’s prudent management and investments for making the most of his fees. Left to his own devices Clint would just have spent it all on whatever caught his fancy.

Like super-expensive slave girls, for instance.

He hesitated outside Natasha’s door, wondering if she was up yet, then shamed himself into walking on—he was in no state to greet her, disheveled and sweaty after his run. He tried not to think about her until he was out of the shower and dressed—he really did want to take things slowly, wait until she was comfortable with him, and that would be a lot easier if he didn’t allow himself to indulge in fantasies about her. Like her showering for the day in a cavernous stall, the hot water reddening her pale skin wherever it struck, steaming up the walls so he could only catch tantalizing glimpses of flesh when he walked in—

Clint snapped back to reality, which involved sitting on a bench in his closet holding a sock up to his bare foot. Not very sexy, that. He tried to finish dressing quickly and went downstairs. It was still well before nine but he wanted to talk to Phil first anyway.

“So what do you think of her?” he demanded of his housekeeper when he found him in his office.

“I barely spoke to her,” Phil reminded him. Clint did not see how that was relevant. “She seemed very polite,” he finally said.

“Yeah, she’s very classy,” Clint agreed, sitting down on the edge of Phil’s desk and also on some papers he was reading. “She’s skittish, though. If I moved my arm too fast she would flinch like I was going to hit her. And I don’t think she really believes I don’t want to force her to have kinky sex with everyone I know.”

“Why did you buy her, then?” Phil asked in irritation, tugging on the papers.

“Phil,” Clint chided. Sometimes Phil’s sense of humor was not very sensitive. “You can’t make comments like that around her, you’ll upset her.”

“Really, why did you buy her?” Phil asked in a more serious tone. “You hardly need to purchase a permanent companion if you’re lonely.”

“True, a charming Hunter is usually a big hit with the ladies,” Clint agreed immodestly.

Phil rolled his eyes. “Answer my question, please.”

Clint was not prepared to admit the truth to anyone yet, not even Phil. “Well, I felt sorry for her,” he confessed, sheepishly, convincingly. “And, you know, she’s so beautiful—“

“I’m putting a cap on the amount you can spend on the road,” Phil decided punitively. “If you’re starting to feel sorry for beautiful slaves the house will soon be overrun with them.”

Clint was not too worried about this restriction; he had more important things to think about. “I want her to feel safe here,” he went on. “And respected. People should treat her like an important guest.”

Phil gave him a look. “How are you imagining people will treat her?” he asked. “I’ve handpicked every employee for their efficiency and discretion—“

“Whoa, don’t get your tail feathers in a twist,” Clint placated him, realizing he’d hit a sensitive area. “That’s exactly what I told Natasha, that everyone here was nice and she didn’t have to worry about them.” This seemed to calm Phil down a bit. “Just, she’ll probably be _looking_ for things that disprove that, you know? Because all she’s ever known are sick f—ks who don’t give a s—t about making her happy.”

“It seems like you had a very interesting ride back here,” Phil observed. “You seem rather attached to her, is what I mean. That might be unwise.”

Now Clint rolled his eyes. “I don’t even know what you mean,” he claimed, hopping off the desk. “Oh, by the way, I gave her a dagger so she’d feel safer. So don’t try to take it away or anything.”

“You _gave her a dagger_?” Phil repeated with some alarm.

“Please,” Clint dismissed. “She could pick up a ton of weapons just lying around the house.”

“Not really,” Phil countered, but Clint ignored that.

“Well, maybe I’ll go see if she’s ready early,” he decided, glancing at the chrono. “Thanks for getting her some clothes and all.”

“Clint,” Phil said, and he turned in the doorway. “Be careful. Really. She’s damaged goods.”

“Fixable, though, I think,” Clint insisted cheerfully, leaving. Optimism was the only way he could think in a situation like this, since everyone—including Natasha—seemed determined to take the worst possible view.

He took the stairs two at a time and rapped on her door, resisting the urge to just push it open. It was _her_ room now. After a moment he heard the lock click on the other side—of course, she could lock the door if she wanted, it just hadn’t occurred to him that she would—and then it opened a crack, wider when she realized it was him.

“Hi,” Clint greeted. “Are you ready? I know it’s early. We can wait if you want.”

“It’s fine,” Natasha assured him. She was wearing slacks and a button-down shirt, slightly unbuttoned to reveal the shirt underneath, and her hair was pulled up away from her face. She might have been the world’s hottest office assistant, Clint thought.

“You look nice,” he told her as they walked down the stairs.

“Thank you. Phil picked out a nice selection of clothing for me.”

“Did you find everything okay?” Clint asked solicitously. “The, uh, bathroom, the viewscreen…”

“You pointed it out to me last night,” Natasha reminded him.

“Oh, right.”

“Everything’s very nice,” she assured him with a smile, slipping her arm through his. He recognized the performance when he saw it; maybe someday it would be real. “Are we going to have breakfast now?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Clint agreed, guiding her into the kitchen. Well, it wasn’t the _real_ kitchen, which had a full staff just to prepare meals for the _rest_ of the staff; it was the ‘morning kitchen,’ which just looked like a regular kitchen (albeit a nice one) and had only one person working in it currently. “Morning, Mrs. McClatchy,” Clint greeted.

The woman bustling around behind the counter gave him a genuine smile. “Good morning, sir! Nice to see you back in one piece.”

“Nice to _be_ in one piece,” Clint noted. “This is Natasha, she’s going to be staying here a while.”

“Good morning, miss,” Mrs. McClatchy told her cheerfully. “Now what can I get you two for breakfast?”

“What would you like?” Clint prompted Natasha.

“What would you prefer I have?” she countered.

He wasn’t sure if she was trying to be prudent, or trying to make him feel awkward. “Um, what do you like?” he pushed back.

Natasha smiled. “What do you recommend?” Mrs. McClatchy’s gaze pinged between them.

“Are we going to have this conversation often?” Clint wanted to know, mildly exasperated. “Just pick something.”

“Could I have some toast and yogurt, and a little bit of fruit, please?” Natasha said to Mrs. McClatchy. “And some coffee.”

“Of course, dear,” the cook agreed. “And for you, sir?” She turned to Clint.

“Eggs, ham, yogurt, cheese,” he ordered. The cook nodded and went off to start making the meal, and Clint gestured for Natasha to sit down at the table.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” she told him quickly. “I just didn’t understand what you wanted me to do.”

“Well, I just wanted you to order what you wanted for breakfast, that’s all,” Clint tried to explain. “I mean, I’m not trying to trick you or anything.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha said again with an ingratiating smile, reaching over to clasp his hand. The gesture only depressed Clint further and he sighed. He couldn’t expect her to unlearn everything she was used to overnight.

“Did you sleep okay?” he tried asking her.

“Oh yes, the room is very comfortable,” Natasha replied.

Clint gave her a narrow look. “Really. I always have trouble sleeping in a strange place.”

“I thought you said you weren’t trying to trick me,” Natasha shot back lightly.

“It would just be nice to hear what you actually thought,” Clint said, “and not what you thought I wanted to hear.” Natasha’s gaze dropped uncomfortably to her lap, then darted around the room, and somehow Clint felt even worse. “Sorry,” he told her quickly, then didn’t know what else to say.

“Actually I don’t require much sleep,” Natasha finally revealed awkwardly, “so I didn’t really sleep last night. At all.”

Clint’s eyes widened. “You didn’t sleep at _all_? How much do you need? Do you want to go back to bed?”

Mrs. McClatchy interrupted them right then. “Here’s your coffee,” she announced briskly, setting the cups down. “And some fruit and yogurt. I’ll be right back with the rest.”

“Thank you,” Natasha told her politely.

“Thanks,” Clint added belatedly, turning his attention back to Natasha. Though really, when had it ever strayed? “You can go back to bed if you want,” he insisted.

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep,” she assured him, sipping her coffee. “I have trouble sleeping in a strange place,” she added with a smirk.

“Well, let me know if you get tired later.” Clint could get by on very little sleep himself, of course, in the middle of a hunt with the adrenaline fueling him. Maybe to Natasha, this place felt as uncertain and dangerous as a hunt did.

Mrs. McClatchy returned with the hot food. “Now, what would you like for lunch today, sir?” she asked. “And when would you like it?”

“Uh, um, whatever you were going to fix anyway,” Clint demurred. “Only throw in more meat. Same with dinner. I dunno, maybe one and seven?”

Natasha cleared her throat a little and he glanced at her. “If it’s alright with you,” she began, and to the untrained eye she seemed perfectly casual, “I like to eat smaller meals more often.”

Clint was pleased she was making an effort. “Okay. When do you next want to eat?”

“Eleven-thirty,” Natasha suggested. “And,” she added before she lost her nerve, “could I have breakfast earlier tomorrow? Maybe around seven.”

Clint was torn between being glad she had spoken up, and feeling guilty about making her wait today—though that really wasn’t his fault, he told himself, as she hadn’t spoken up the night before. “Whatever you want,” he promised her.

“So, something light at eleven-thirty and the main meal at one?” Mrs. McClatchy checked, oblivious to the discussion’s undertones.

“Yes,” Clint confirmed. “And if Natasha gets hungry at other times, she can get you, or help herself to whatever’s in here, right?”

“Oh, of course, dear,” the cook assured Natasha. “Don’t be shy. No need for anyone to go hungry around here.” Clint shot Natasha a look that said ‘I told you so.’

They ate quietly, Clint now watching to see if she exhibited signs of exhaustion or starvation. Every once in a while he caught himself staring and looked away; but she seemed used to doing things on display.

“So, I want to show you the library,” he started to list, “and the music room, and the gym, and the pool, oh, and the barn—“

“I would like to see them,” Natasha encouraged politely.

“And you can use anything you want,” he reiterated. “Well, almost anything. I mean, there’s _my_ horse, but you can have your _own_ horse, and maybe you’d like your own gym equipment, too. Hey, what kind of exercise routine do you follow, anyway?”

“Yoga.”

Clint waited for the rest. “That’s it?”

“Sometimes I swim or play tennis,” Natasha shrugged. “It was always better to have something I could do alone in my room on my own time, so I wouldn’t… inconvenience anyone else.”

Or depend on anyone else, or be on display for anyone else, Clint translated. He nodded slowly. “Well, feel free to do your yoga whenever you want,” he assured her. “And you can swim or play tennis or whatever you want.”

“So many choices,” Natasha murmured, nibbling her fruit. “How will I ever decide.” The comment was playful but with an undercurrent of truth, Clint felt.

“Well, I want you to try everything,” he shared, “so you’ll feel comfortable using it when I’m gone.” To his surprise this generated a sudden reaction from Natasha as she looked up in, perhaps, alarm. He had only a moment to study it before she carefully schooled her features again.

“Oh, you’re planning to leave again soon?” she asked with polite interest, as though inquiring about someone’s upcoming vacation.

Clint shrugged; he hadn’t thought of it as a big deal before but her response suggested he needed to think about it more carefully. “If I’m not out on a job I’m not earning money,” he noted casually. “I don’t have a job waiting _yet_. I like to spend a little time at home, recuperate, enjoy—“ He was about to say something about ‘the things his money bought,’ but then he realized that included _her_ , and could make her uncomfortable. “—enjoy myself,” he finished, with only a slight hitch. “But I’ll probably head back out again soon.”

“How soon?” Natasha wanted to know. Her tone was light, but she gripped her fork tightly.

Clint couldn’t tell if she was eager for him to be gone, or—thrillingly—perhaps it was the opposite. “A couple of weeks, maybe,” he hedged. “Until another interesting job comes in.”

“You must have many interesting jobs,” Natasha commented, changing the subject smoothly. “Can you tell me about any of them?”

Clint drained his coffee cup and assessed the food remaining on her plate. “Are you still eating?” he asked, since she’d only been pushing things around for the last couple minutes. “It’s okay if you are, I was just going to suggest we walk instead of sitting here talking.”

“Hunters have very active lifestyles,” Natasha commented with a flirtatious smile. It seemed _slightly_ more real to him this time and he found himself grinning back, stupidly. All her delicate and subtle arts of seduction were, he felt, wasted on him—he obviously didn’t require subtlety—though he certainly encouraged her to keep on trying. After a moment she put down her fork and set her napkin aside. “Yes, I’m done.”

“I don’t want to rush you.”

“No, I’m done. Thank you,” she added politely, and he stood.

“Do you want to see the house first, or look around outside?” Clint asked her. She hesitated in her answer, which he found maddening, if understandable. “Don’t ask which one _I_ prefer,” he cut in.

A slight smile appeared on her lips, whether gratitude or tolerance he couldn’t tell. “I would like to see the house first,” she replied carefully.

“Okay then.” He gestured for her to head out of the morning kitchen back into the foyer, and it suddenly occurred to him that 1) the house was huge, and 2) he’d never given a tour of it before. Natasha noticed his pause at the foot of the stairs immediately.

“Would you prefer to go outside first?” she inquired, as though she was just trying to help him out.

“No, I just have to decide where to start,” Clint assured her, looking around. He thought about what Phil would do—and about getting Phil to do it—but then dismissed that as too boring.

“How about I show you my favorite places, and you can wander around on your own later?” he suggested, wondering if this was considered cheating. “It’s just, there’s a lot of dull rooms, guest bedrooms and parlors and whatever. I don’t know why, we never have guests.”

He started walking down one of the hallways and Natasha followed. “Sometimes I think Phil just can’t decide what to do with all the rooms, so he puts either beds or sofas in them.”

“You do seem to have an excess of house, relative to your needs,” Natasha agreed delicately, gazing around at the rooms they passed unexplored.

“Yeah, Phil says it’s a good investment,” Clint admitted. He didn’t often question Phil’s judgment about such things. “I guess some of the artwork is valuable? And we’re a big source of income for the village.” Now that he thought about it, he thought he might _own_ some of the village as well.

“Hey, here’s a painting that I like,” he added suddenly, stopping in the hall. “There’s a little light here somewhere—“ He switched on the lamp above the painting for a better view.

It was a classic pastoral scene, a mortal hunter unwittingly spying on a bathing goddess in the woods. The hunter carried a bow, a quiver of arrows slung over his back; the goddess was blond and curvaceous, and quite nude in a tasteful way. And Clint suddenly felt a little weird about it, and about what message he was sending to Natasha by saying he liked it. He just thought it was pretty, the carefully-rendered natural setting with realistic details like a misbehaving hunting dog, identifiable plants, a variety of expressions on the faces of the attendant nymphs. Or whoever attended a bathing goddess.

“Um, I like this dog,” he pointed out lamely. “He’s funny. And, uh, this shrub here, that’s a shrewberry, it really has thorns like that—“

Natasha was studying the painting carefully. “Is this the _original_ Muguet?” she asked.

Clint had heard of Muguet. He wasn’t a totally uncultured idiot, though he probably looked like one to Natasha right now. “Mmm, I think so,” he hedged. “I mean, do _you_ think so?”

“Well, nowadays the reproductions are so good it’s hard to tell at a glance,” she judged, giving it far more than a glance. “My guess would be yes.” After a moment she seemed to feel like she was neglecting Clint and pulled back suddenly. “I’m so sorry, you were talking about the dog and the shrub?”

Clint grinned. “Do you like art?” he asked. “There’s lots of art around. Ask Phil about any of it, he would love to have someone to talk to. Oh, hey, we could put something in your room, if you really like it.”

“Thank you, that’s very thoughtful,” Natasha replied. “My mas—“ She caught herself, obviously, painfully. “My former master and his friends had large art collections that I became familiar with. Sometimes we would visit galleries and museums.”

“Not too many cultural activities around here,” Clint admitted. “Oh, the village has a few festivals each year, if you ever want to go to one of those. One of them involves throwing pigs’ hooves.”

“Ah,” Natasha answered, with admirable interest, and Clint suppressed a grin.

“Okay, here’s a room I like a lot,” he told her, opening a door. “This is the music room.” He supposed that might be obvious from the piano, guitar, and drum set it contained.

Natasha stepped in, her shoes silent on the special sound-absorbing floor. Clint took his music production much more seriously than the art that decorated his house. “You said you enjoyed singing and playing music,” she recalled from the night before. “I look forward to hearing it sometime.” She ran her hand lightly along the edge of the shiny piano.

“Do you sing?” Clint asked her. It was impossible to tell people’s musical talent from their speaking voice, of course; but he liked to imagine her husky tone translating into sultry, smoky jazz stylings.

“Oh, no,” Natasha replied, to his disappointment. “No, I’m not talented that way.” Her answer was very quick, as though it had been tested and proven before.

“Well, if you ever want to try, or you want to learn to play the piano or something, feel free,” Clint allowed. “I think it’s a lot of fun. Doesn’t matter if it’s not perfect. Although I have to admit listening to myself sing is still kind of weird for me,” he conceded. Natasha gave him a curious look. “Oh, yeah, it’s a recording studio, too, which is great,” he explained enthusiastically, opening a cabinet on the wall to reveal some electronic equipment. “There’s microphones and cameras around the room to—“

Natasha stiffened suddenly. “Where?”

Clint frowned at her reaction. “Well, they’re out of sight, mostly. It’s better acoustics if—“

“Hidden cameras,” Natasha surmised. “Ah. I see.” Her tone was not disapproving, exactly, but cool and distant.

“Is something wrong?” Clint asked her.

“No, of course, it’s fine,” she insisted.

He narrowed his eyes at her and tried to think of something unpleasant and sexual regarding hidden cameras, which she might have been subjected to. It didn’t take very long. “Natasha—“ he began, stepping towards her. She tensed, he paused, then slowly put his hands on her upper arms and rubbed them lightly. “It’s just a few cameras in the music room, for recording me singing,” he promised her. “There aren’t other cameras hidden around the house. There’s nothing to be worried about.” He paused. “Except for those videos of me singing, I’m told they’ve caused seizures.”

A giggle unexpectedly burbled out of Natasha, releasing her tension, and Clint grinned. She cleared her throat, trying to regain her composure, though Clint was perfectly happy to laugh with her about something. He didn’t imagine her previous life had lent itself to much genuine laughter.

“Come on,” he continued, taking her hand. “Let me show you someplace you’ll really like.” They exited the music room and approached another door just down the hall. Without preamble Clint opened it and gestured for her to enter.

Natasha’s eyes widened with wonder as she stepped into the two-story library, turning around slowly to stare at the warm wooden shelf-covered walls, the overstuffed couch and chairs gathered around a marble fireplace off to one side, the wrought-iron railing of the balcony above. “All these books,” she breathed.

Clint leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, grinning. “Yeah, there’s a lot of books,” he agreed dryly. “Oh, some of them are fake.”

Natasha’s head snapped back to look at him. “What?”

His grin widened at the tinge of disapproval in her tone. “Phil likes to buy _real_ books, but they’re hard to come by these days,” he explained. “So some of the shelves just have cardboard cutouts or whatever, so they look nice until he can find real books to fill them up.”

“But he _wants_ to fill them up,” Natasha checked, drifting closer to one shelf.

“That’s the plan,” Clint agreed. She reached out as if to touch one of the books, then stopped herself and gave him a questioning glance. “Go ahead,” he encouraged, strolling over to see what had caught her eye. “ _The Eyewitness Guide to Fossils_?” he read dubiously.

“I like fossils,” Natasha replied carefully, her hand frozen in the act of removing the book.

“No, that’s cool, you read what you want,” Clint told her. “Fossils don’t really do it for me, but I like _living_ plants and animals.” He turned around to examine another set of shelves. “How does Phil file these? I thought it was right—Oh, here.”

He pulled another book off the shelves and handed it to her. “ _The Dangerous Book of Plants_.” Natasha quirked an eyebrow. “It has a bunch of stories about plants that were used to poison famous people, or that healed famous people, or otherwise had some specific historical impact. Like General Maughn’s troops surviving on wintergreen tea during the Plover Valley campaign, or Constance Robertson having that strawberry allergy attack—“

“And then she couldn’t meet with Hinosato, causing him to pull out of the Pacific Basin Treaty altogether,” Natasha recalled. “That sounds interesting.” She cradled the book to her, along with the one on fossils.

“Go ahead, pick out some more,” Clint suggested. “Here, let’s branch out from natural history.” He rounded another shelf. “How do you feel about… geography?” Well, he’d been hoping for something a little more exciting to present her with.

“I like geography,” Natasha said. Her tone was mild but her eyes greedily devoured the books around her.

“Hmm, you know what,” Clint decided, stepping aside, “I’m just gonna let you look. Take your time. Here, let me hold those for you.” Natasha seemed reluctant to give up the books she already carried. “I promise, you can take them to your room,” he assured her. “I’ll have someone do it for you. As many as you want.”

Clint moved to the table at the center of the room, leaning on it casually and watching as Natasha went from shelf to shelf. She was conscious of his presence at first, but when he was quiet and still for long enough, she forgot he was there and became, somehow, both more relaxed and more intense as she searched through the books. He really wanted to know which ones she found most fascinating, but that would have required interrupting her.

Natasha was starting to get an awkward armload of books now and Clint debated whether he should call attention to himself to take them from her. Then Phil had to march into the room and spoil things.

“You’ve been in here—“ he began, not in an especially loud tone, but it was enough to startle both of them in the silent room. Clint spun around defensively; Natasha, who was halfway around the perimeter from where they’d started, drew in a sharp breath and lost her grip on the tenuously-balanced books in her arms, sending several of them crashing to the ground.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said immediately, dropping to her knees to pick them up. One of them had opened as it fell, bending several pages as it hit the ground. “Oh, G-d, I’m sorry,” she repeated, a hitch in her voice as she tried to smooth the pages back out.

Clint gave the hapless Phil an exasperated look and went to help Natasha. “No, it’s okay, it’s fine—“ She flinched and yanked her hand away as he reached for the same book, practically cowering on the floor before him.

Clint felt a stab of anger against her former master, not for the first time and not, he suspected, for the last. “Natasha, it’s okay,” he repeated in a soothing tone, stroking her arm gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I damaged the books,” she breathed in a small voice, not looking up.

“No, it’s fine,” Clint insisted, carefully increasing the pressure of his touches along her arms until he was squeezing her fingers lightly. “They’re tough. You should see what the books look like when I bring them back from a trip,” he added self-deprecatingly.

“That’s true,” Phil supported. “He dog-ears.”

Clint gave Phil another look suggesting he was being unhelpful. “Come on, Natasha, let me show you more of the house,” he coaxed. “Phil will put these books in your room for you. You can get new ones whenever you want.”

“And there’s all the ebooks on the virtual library, too,” Phil reminded her. “You can read those whenever you want, just let me know if you have trouble.”

Natasha nodded, trying to pull herself together. Clint helped her up, leaving the books strewn around her feet for Phil to deal with. “There, you’re okay, aren’t you,” he encouraged, rubbing her arms. They seemed the safest part of her to touch.

“Yes, of course,” Natasha agreed, and he could see the mask slipping over her again. It was her way of dealing with stressful situations, he understood. For now, anyway. “I’m sorry I made such a fuss, it was silly of me.”

“It’s okay,” Clint told her again. She didn’t quite meet his eye, looking elsewhere and blinking quickly. Inspiration struck him. “Do you—there’s a bathroom just down the hall,” he pointed out. “Why don’t you go, er—“

“Powder your nose,” Phil supplied delicately.

“Right, go powder your nose, and we’ll take these books to your room,” Clint finished, smiling at her.

“Yes, thank you,” Natasha replied, a bit mechanically, and walked with deliberately slow steps out the door.

As soon as she was gone Clint turned on Phil. “Sorry,” Phil told him sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to startle her.”

Clint knew that, of course. “She was in the zone!” he complained anyway, starting to pick up the books. “She really likes the library, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on— _The Beauty of Particle Physics_?” he read with some surprise.

“ _Top Ten Inventions of Evolution_ ,” Phil added, gathering up another book.

“ _The History of the Romanovs in Russia_ ,” Clint continued, hefting a particularly large book. “This thing is a doorstop.”

“She has very wide-ranging interests,” Phil judged. This was a positive attribute. “And issues about discipline.” This was not.

“You know where she came from,” Clint reminded him, piling more books in his arms. “That guy probably—“ He didn’t want to think about it, but he imagined that if Natasha let it be known she enjoyed something, it would likely be used against her at some point. “Anyway, she was having a good time,” he added quietly. “Don’t restrict her access to books or anything.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Phil assured him.

“Well, you can put those in her room,” Clint repeated, indicating the pile of books Phil now carried. “I think we’ll go downstairs next.”

“Okay,” Phil acknowledged, carting the books away. Clint was sure he probably felt a _little_ bit bad about upsetting Natasha, but at the same time it kind of proved his point: she thought she was going to be beaten for minor offenses. And when someone’s expectations were so different from her reality—her _new_ reality—her reactions could be very unpredictable, even violent.

And Clint _had_ given her that dagger. He wondered idly where it was, if she was keeping it on her, as he waited for her just down the hall from the bathroom. That would be the sensible thing to do with a weapon, rather than leave it in her room.

Clint heard water running and a moment later Natasha emerged, looking much calmer. He smiled automatically when he saw her, looking so elegant and poised, like a model in a high-end fashion ad. Who wouldn’t want _that_ to step out of their bathroom? Though he liked her unexpected laughter even better.

“Hi,” he finally said, after staring at her for a long moment.

“Hi,” she replied, in a quietly sexy way designed to make him forget all about the recent unpleasantness. Of course, identifying that motive meant it failed to work.

“Phil took all those books up to your room,” he told her, and a flash of discomfort crossed her face. He didn’t want her to be uncomfortable about books, since she seemed to enjoy them. “Geez, you had books I didn’t even know were in there! Particle physics? That’s very impressive.”

Natasha didn’t quite know what to say to this, which seemed to be an unusual occurrence for her. “Thank you,” she finally went with. “Particle physics is a challenging subject, I’ve read several books about it and still feel like I know very little.”

“I like astronomy more,” Clint told her, “though of course those two subjects intersect, like when you get to the Big Bang.”

“And string theory,” Natasha nodded, more relaxed. “Have you read _many_ of the books in the library?”

“Well, I’ve read a _lot_ ,” Clint told her imprecisely. “I spend a lot of time sitting and waiting on the job, or traveling, and it’s nice to have a book—“ He remembered something suddenly. “Oh, I was going to tell you about some of my jobs,” he realized. “And then I didn’t.”

“I thought maybe you didn’t want to,” Natasha replied lightly, falling into step beside him as he walked down the corridor. “Or weren’t allowed to. Confidentiality or something.”

Clint scoffed at the idea. “By the time you call in a Hunter, you’ve lost all hope of discretion,” he judged knowledgeably. They stopped at a stairway leading down. “But, before we get off track—or maybe we were off track before, I’m not sure—“ Natasha smiled at him. “—um, I wanted to show you the basement real quick, because you might use it—“ Clint stopped two steps down and realized Natasha was still at the top, a look of trepidation on her face. G-d, was _everything_ going to be a trigger with her? Maybe he should be keeping count of every time he wanted to punch her former master in the face, in case he ever ran into him again.

But for right now Clint merely held out his hand to her and tried to affect a non-threatening demeanor. “Natasha? Is something wrong with the basement?”

After a moment she squared her shoulders and took his hand, stepping down with him. “No, not at all,” she claimed.

He smiled reassuringly. “Good. All the fun stuff is in the basement!”

“The library isn’t fun?” she teased lightly.

“Mmm, fun in a different way,” Clint hedged. The vagueness did not seem to be helping her relax; he could feel her clutching his hand more tightly than usual as they reached the foot of the stairs and turned to step out into the basement.

The room they stood in was large, with a low ceiling and a black and white tiled floor. Some little tables and chairs lined one wall, and the whole room was decorated with colorful souvenirs Phil did not allow in the rest of the house. To one side was an elaborate bar with a kitchenette behind it.

“Oh yeah, the party room,” Clint enthused. He bounded over to the bar and switched on the neon sign above it, a multicolored cowboy whose arm blinked between two different positions as if he were waving, casting red and yellow reflections on the expensive bottles of alcohol lined up nearby. Okay, Clint didn’t _actually_ have parties in here, or at all really; but if he _did_ , he _would_. Or something like that.

He looked back at Natasha and tried not to laugh at the expression on her face. Obviously she was used to a different caliber of ‘party room.’ “Wow, it’s so… bright,” she tried mightily. “And cheerful.”

Clint took her hand and pulled her across the tiles. “This is the dance floor,” he explained. “You like to dance, don’t you?”

“I dance, yes,” she agreed readily. He didn’t miss the omission of ‘liking’ it.

“We’ll come down here and dance,” he promised enthusiastically. “The sound system’s really good, and—check this out!” He drew her over to a large machine with colorful piping that pulsed with light when he switched it on. There was a window in its domed top with a mechanical arm and a stack of silver discs, and below it, pages of song titles that could be flipped with a knob. “Have you ever seen one of these?” She hadn’t. “It’s called a _jukebox_. You put in a quarter—“ He reached into a jar on a nearby table, full of coins dark with age and use.

“Are those—hard currency?” Natasha asked in amazement.

“Yeah,” Clint replied proudly. “I got a whole bag of them at a junk booth at some fair. Careful, they’re dirty though,” he warned when she reached for one. “I keep having them washed but they pick up stuff easily.” He deposited the quarter in a slot on the jukebox and a light began to flash.

“What should we listen to?” he mused, flipping through the songs. After a moment he selected one and typed its numeric code into the keypad. “Okay, watch this,” he encouraged, peering into the window.

The mechanical arm reached over to the stack of discs, slid purposefully up the column, and pulled one disc out. Then it carried the disc over to a platform, where the disc started to spin rapidly. After a moment the song blared from the room’s speakers. “That’s how people used to store music,” he explained to Natasha, moving vaguely to the beat of the song. “You can only encode maybe twenty, twenty-five songs on one disc.”

“People must’ve had huge collections of them,” Natasha marveled. She swayed to the rhythm as well, with Clint’s encouragement. “And how did they ever find what song they wanted? Did everyone have a big jukebox like this?”

“Oh no,” Clint corrected, pulling her more towards the center of the room for a proper dance. “This was a special thing that dance halls had, so people could choose their music. At home people had all kinds of systems, some quite small and portable, and others very elaborate with huge speakers and control panels.”

“You must be very interested in the history of music,” Natasha suggested, and Clint shrugged modestly.

“Oh, it’s a hobby, I guess,” he agreed. “I like to see what people had to go through to collect and listen to music in the past. It’s so easy now and there’s so _much_ of it, any style you want. People used to have to go to _stores_ to buy music, and of course a store just isn’t going to have everything. Then you were outta luck.” That reminded him of something. “Say, you’ll probably want to order some clothes and stuff today,” he suggested. “Did Phil leave the info in your room?”

“Yes,” Natasha assured him. “I’ll work on it. Thank you, that’s very generous of you.”

“You look like a girl who likes beautiful clothes,” Clint replied, perhaps a bit nonsensically. “You should have them.”

Something flashed across Natasha’s face, what he wasn’t sure; but it made him think of how she’d come here wearing only the little black dress and the cloak he’d gotten for her, because her former owner didn’t leave her anything but the clothes on her back. Add one more thing to Clint’s list of grievances against the man. Surely a woman like Natasha, meant as a beautiful ornament for society, had entire wardrobes of fashionable clothes, shoes, jewelry, cosmetics—all of it likely for her use alone, even if she couldn’t be said to _own_ it. Having them taken away from her was probably not the _worst_ thing ever done to her, but one final kick to show just how little control she had over her own life.

“You can order whatever you want,” Clint promised her. “I mean, there won’t really be much call for fancy ball gowns or anything, but you can order them. Or sweatpants or whatever you want.” The thought of Natasha in sweatpants was unexpectedly alluring.

She smiled. “Sweatpants _are_ very comfortable.”

“Yeah, order what you’re comfortable in,” Clint asserted. “Don’t feel like you have to dress up all the time. Or you can if you want.”

“I’m not really good with ambivalence,” Natasha reminded him delicately.

“I know, sorry,” he admitted. He didn’t want to make things difficult for her, make her anxious wondering what exactly he really wanted from her. “I want you to be comfortable,” he tried to clarify. “And, just FYI, there aren’t any fancy parties to go to around here.” Natasha nodded slowly and he hoped she understood his meaning.

The song on the jukebox ended, leaving them standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor. “You’re a good dancer,” Clint told her.

“Thank you, so are you,” she returned. “You have a natural rhythm which is impressive.”

He grinned suddenly. “Thanks.” She’d seemed so serious with the compliment, he couldn’t help but feel it was sincere. And that made him just a little giddy. _She likes my dancing!_

After a moment he realized he was still grinning at her and stopped himself. “Um, hey, here’s the exercise room,” he pointed out abruptly, taking her hand and pulling her over to one side. They entered a room crowded with various pieces of gym equipment and Clint looked around with a critical eye, trying to see if anything had been changed since he was home last.

“You exercise a lot,” Natasha predicted flatly.

“Oh yeah,” he agreed. “I’m usually down here at least two hours every day. I also like to jog around the place, swim, play basketball and tennis, and ride horses.” He glanced over at her. “Uh, _you_ don’t have to do all those things, of course. But if you _want_ to use any of this equipment, just let me know and I’ll show it to you. Or ask Phil if I’m not home.”

“Thank you,” she replied politely. “I would like to try and stay active.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, if you want to sit around all day in comfy sweats eating chips and watching the network, that’s cool with me,” he claimed.

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him. “ _Is_ it cool with you?” she asked challengingly.

Clint tried to picture her fat and disheveled, with chip crumbs on her chest and the glazed eyes of a network addict. “Active is healthier,” he reversed, and she smiled at his realization, chuckling slightly. “But don’t stress about it. You look great the way you are right now,” he added, taking the opportunity to look her over. It was not difficult.

“My ma—“ She caught herself more quickly this time. “Some people like me slimmer. I’ve gained a little weight recently.” She spoke with the candor of one who was used to discussing her personal appearance objectively.

“What? No, you look fantastic,” Clint insisted, checking again just in case. “Where would you even lose the weight from? I like curves.” And now he officially felt weird. “Um, but you should just try to be healthy—“

“How I feel comfortable?” Natasha guessed dryly. She smiled as she spoke, though, and put her hand around Clint’s arm.

“I’m not really the micromanaging type,” he confessed. Her wry smirk suggested she had already figured this out. “Let me show you something else cool down here,” he said, deciding to leave the exercise equipment alone for the moment. They crossed the dance floor again and headed around the side of the bar, which boasted a popcorn machine, a cotton candy maker, a soft-serve ice cream dispenser, a soda fountain, and a hot dog rotisserie.

“Wow, it’s the _anti_ -exercise room,” Natasha commented sardonically.

“I know!” Clint agreed gleefully. “When they’re all going it smells just like heaven.” Natasha gave him a sidelong glance but smiled at his sincerity. “And they all lead to…” The corridor ahead of them became close and dark, and Natasha hesitated. “Come on, it’s okay,” he encouraged, pushing through a swinging door. He flipped on the light, revealing a small but sophisticated home theater, and Natasha relaxed considerably. “See, it’s really comfortable,” Clint assured her, settling onto the overstuffed couch in the front row. Behind it was a line of recliners, for those who liked their own space a little further back.

“Where’s the screen?” she asked, sitting down next to him. He draped his arm around her shoulders automatically.

“There’s no screen,” Clint explained. “It’s an overhead projector.” He pointed upwards to the machine attached to the ceiling. “It projects network content directly onto the wall.”

“That’s very nice,” Natasha decided.

“Do you like movies?” Clint wanted to know. “What kind?” She hesitated, and he was about to gently chide her for trying to guess what answer he was looking for; but then he realized that she was actually trying hard to figure her answer out for herself, and he waited patiently. Maybe people didn’t usually ask her what she wanted to watch.

“I think I like science fiction and fantasy,” she answered unexpectedly, “and some historical epics, if they aren’t too violent. Escapism.”

“Really.”

“Yes,” she decided more firmly. “Like _Dragon Quest_. And _Space Voyagers_. And _The Sword and the Crown_.”

Clint grinned broadly, proud of her for stating her own opinion. “Really? That’s tremendous. We have all of those, I think. Order more if we don’t have them.”

“Is that what _you_ like?” Natasha wanted to know.

He kept the smile on his face. “The things I like are usually more violent,” he admitted. “Straight action movies, martial arts, gangster flicks. But, you know, the new _Space Voyagers_ movie is pretty good. And who doesn’t like _Dragon Quest_?” Natasha looked slightly crestfallen, however. “Hey, I’m glad you told me, that was really good,” he encouraged. “I won’t make you watch anything that you think is too violent or whatever. We’ll watch movies we _both_ like. And,” he added, “you can come down here to watch them on the big screen whenever you want.”

“By myself?” Natasha shrugged a little. “I don’t know, it seems a bit silly, by myself.” She seemed to catch herself daring to express her true thoughts and hastily added, “Not silly really, very generous, I just never had the opportunity before—“

Clint smiled at her. “I’m not offended,” he promised. “I mean, I watch stuff here by myself sometimes, but usually I try to at least have Phil or someone join me. It can be a little lonely sometimes,” he admitted.

Natasha smiled back; she was an expert at alleviating people’s loneliness. “I’m sure it can,” she agreed in a sympathetic purr. “This big, nice house with all the amenities… and no one to share it with. And you being gone so often…” She curled up closer to him.

And Clint certainly appreciated it, brushing his fingers idly against her upper arm and slipping his other hand over the one she placed on his knee. He didn’t really believe that she was already warming to him completely—though he would not object to such an event—but he enjoyed the attempt, the effect. Any opportunity he could take to show her he wasn’t going to hurt her, he would.

“Well, the staff use a lot of the amenities, too,” he commented idly.

Her reaction was more dramatic than he was expecting, as she drew back and looked at him with surprise. “What?”

Clint froze, trying to figure out what landmine he’d stepped on this time, but nothing immediately came to mind. “Well—I’m not here, and there’s a big staff, so—they use the theater, gym, library—“ Her expression was not enlightening him. “Are you worried about feeling—crowded?” he finally guessed. “Phil schedules everything really well, there’s plenty of time without other people around—“ He seemed to be on the wrong track.

“You let your staff use your private facilities,” Natasha restated, and again he just couldn’t tell where she was coming from with this.

“Yes,” Clint answered firmly, because this was true. And honestly, he didn’t see it changing. His staff were highly vetted, endured strict security regulations, and lived in an isolated backwater. He did not begrudge them using the exercise equipment in the four one-hour slots Phil scheduled throughout the day. The times were clearly posted and Clint had no problem avoiding them.

Suddenly Natasha smiled, a real smile that took his breath away. “That’s wonderful,” she told him sincerely. “That’s very generous.”

He smiled back and briefly forgot what they’d been discussing. “Really? That’s great. Er, yeah,” he added in confusion. “I thought you were going to be upset about it. For a second.”

“No, not at all,” Natasha assured him. “It just surprised me. That you would let your staff use things around the house.”

Clint could imagine why. “Well, you go ahead and use things whenever you want,” he encouraged. “Talk to Phil if you want to make sure you don’t overlap with anyone else.”

She nodded slowly and settled back in the seat, her shoulder pressed against his, staring ahead at the wall as though waiting for a movie to begin. She didn’t seem bothered by him gazing at her, so he indulged for a long moment, enjoying the companionable silence. Maybe that meant she was becoming more relaxed around him.

Then his phone buzzed. Rolling his eyes Clint pulled it out and saw that it was a message from Mrs. McClatchy. “Snack time,” he relayed to Natasha. He hadn’t realized it was getting so late. “We have to go to the east terrace.” He automatically looked around to orient himself, even though the room was windowless.

“I imagine it will take a little time to find my way around,” Natasha noted as they stood.

Clint casually took her hand and led her from the theater. “Are you good at directions?” he asked her.

“Not really.”

“Well, don’t go too deep into the woods, then,” he advised, though he suspected that wouldn’t be a problem with her. “If you stay within sight of the house there should always be someone around to help you out.” She nodded in acknowledgment, but with a sober expression. “Have you—“ He kind of didn’t want to know, but now that he’d started to ask he felt he ought to continue. “Have you had problems with staff before? In other places?”

He felt her hand tense in his as they headed for the stairs. “I was not to be shared with staff,” she said bluntly. “It was forbidden. But sometimes there were comments,” she added after a moment. He sensed extreme understatement in her tone.

“There won’t be any problems here,” he assured her firmly. It was not the most precise promise; but he trusted she knew what he meant, that none would be _tolerated_. “Let me or Phil know.”

They emerged onto the first floor and Clint drew her through the halls towards the east. “There are a lot of rooms here,” he repeated vaguely. “Parlor, drawing room, sitting room, den, study, office, dining room… Oh, there’s a game room with board games and a pool table,” he remembered as they passed it. “And an art studio with craft supplies. Help yourself there. Second floor is mostly bedrooms,” he went on. “We’re in the west wing. Some staff, like Phil, are in the east wing. Others are in a bunk house a little further away, across the yard. Third floor is mainly offices and storage.”

“It’s an interesting setup,” Natasha commented. “Most large houses I’ve seen do a lot of entertaining, host a lot of guests.”

Clint shrugged. “Eh, I’m not really a people person,” he conceded. “Phil found this house for a steal years ago, because it was in pretty bad shape. I did a lot of the early repair work myself,” he added, with a touch of pride. “Now it’s kind of a perpetual motion machine—more house means more staff means more house…” He didn’t mind. He liked the privacy _and_ the modern conveniences, and he trusted Phil to run a tight ship.

“Yet they’re very discreet,” Natasha complimented. “I haven’t seen any today except Mrs. McClatchy.”

“They’ll be glad to have someone here all the time,” Clint claimed. Natasha smiled politely at this. He couldn’t imagine her being too demanding of the servants—he got the impression she would rather keep herself quietly occupied and out of the way, given the choice. Or maybe he was just reading too much into her, as Phil thought.

They reached a glass-paneled door and stepped out onto a flagstone-covered patio. “The east terrace,” Clint announced grandly. “Are you warm enough?” The day had started out with a bit of bite but the temperature had increased as noon approached, and the terrace was quite sunny.

“Yes, I’m fine, thanks.”

Clint guided her over to a wrought-iron table under an umbrella, where Mrs. McClatchy stood waiting with their meal. “Hope you’ve had a nice morning looking ‘round the house, Miss,” the cook said, laying out their food. “You have any questions just let me know, alright?”

“Yes, thank you,” Natasha assured her pleasantly. Mrs. McClatchy served her some granola, fruit, and yogurt, then chuckled when she caught Clint looking at it in dismay.

“Don’t worry, sir, there’s something else for you!” she promised, handing him a plate of ham and eggs.

“Oh, thanks, Mrs. McClatchy,” he replied sheepishly. “So, what’s for lunch today? What time did we say, one?”

“Yes, sir,” the cook confirmed. “Thought we’d have a nice green salad with some poached salmon, sir, and some fresh bread and cheese.”

“Yum,” Clint approved. “You like seafood, don’t you?” he asked Natasha.

“Oh yes,” she agreed, seemingly sincere. “Salmon is very good.”


End file.
